Like Lions
by staphylococci
Summary: When their new home in the forest is discovered by Erasers, Max and the flock are given a message: the answer lies north. Trouble is, they're unsure of the question. Guided by Max's Voice, some clues, and Iggy's highly developed sense of irony, they head north in search for the one thing they desperately need but have never truly had: freedom. [Post-SOF]
1. ONE

LIKE LIONS

 _Is it worse to see no future? Is it worse to be afraid?  
_ _And then we are like lions—pumping fire in our veins  
_ _We are born in perfect hunger, we are born with perfect need  
_ _And then we are like lions—we are baring all our teeth_

* * *

ONE

"Okay. Everyone name one thing that they're grateful for."

"Food."

I rolled my eyes at this incredibly predictable answer from the Gasman, feeling my patience wane. "Maybe something a little more sentimental?"

"Oh, not _this_ again," said Total, our pompous, impressively obnoxious talking Scottie. I kicked some dirt at him. _"Hey!"_

"Fire," said Iggy, forever our resident pyro, from next to me. He was pulling the turkey from our makeshift rotisserie. When I sighed exasperatedly, he looked offended. "What? It helps us _make_ food. And bombs. _And_ stay warm."

"All valid points," Gazzy said seriously.

It was Thanksgiving. We were camped out in a forest by the mountains in Middle of Nowhere, West Virginia, where we'd lived in tents for the past year, and were about to enjoy—get this— _actual turkey._ And celebrate—wait for it—an _actual holiday._

I did my best to internalize my frustration at Iggy and the Gasman's immaturity. Part of the problem with being a ragtag band of mutants on the run was that nobody was around to stop them from being little twerps. Gazzy I understood—he was only ten years old, he was _supposed_ to be obnoxious—but Iggy, who was on the tail end of fifteen, had no excuse.

I guess, in reality, it was _my_ job to stop them from being twerps, because I'm the leader, but I'd learned from a very young age that I needed to pick my battles when it came to my pseudo-siblings/children.

Iggy hacked out a half-laugh and punched me in the shoulder affectionately with a greasy fist. I'd never get over his sightless accuracy—even after a decade of his blindness, it would never _not_ be creepy.

"Aw, c'mon, Max," he said with a wry grin, sawing the turkey into perfect segments with our best knife. It was the same one I used to kill and clean the bird with, hours before. "Yada yada yada, we love each other, flock family forever, stack the fists, whatever—let's eat."

Iggy passed around paper plates full of sliced turkey. It wasn't the thirty-pound Butterball that Anne (FBI agent-turned-"mom" who turned out to be one of The Bad Guys— _shocker_ ) had prepared last year by any means, but it was certainly a lot less evil.

When Iggy handed me my plate, a certain important part of the turkey seemed to be missing from it.

"Um, hello? Drumstick please?"

"Drumsticks are for the strong manly men," said Iggy in a deep voice, handing a plate with one on it to Fang, who grinned wickedly and quickly dug in. "Gotta keep up our strength, you know."

I felt myself flush with rage. Uh, _perdón?_ "I'm _sorry_ —what manly man _caught_ the turkey? Oh, that's right— _it was me!_ "

Fang cleared his throat from my other side, gesturing to himself with the hand that wasn't holding the turkey leg. "'Us' may be a more accurate word. I recall you scaring off everything in a two mild radius while we were out there—"

I strapped on my Scary Leader Voice and held out a steady hand to Iggy, palm up. " _I_ nailed the killshot, _I_ cleaned the game, _I_ get the drumstick. Now fork it over."

Total chortled. "Brutal."

Iggy groaned, swapping his plate for mine. " _Heil_. Please, vicious dictator, spare us all," he said flatly. "Man, it just keeps getting easier to push your buttons."

I brandished the turkey leg. "You'll be thanking me next time my womanly strength saves your skinny ass from certain death."

Across the fire, Angel was scooping canned corn and peas onto each paper plate. I held mine out and she gave me a generous portion. I beamed at her and she beamed right back, blonde curls bouncing, blue eyes glowing. A true living, breathing angel.

 _Happy Thanksgiving, Max,_ she said. In her mind. 'Cause she's creepy and twisted like that.

Angel fixed a plate for Total and deposited it on the log next to her. He leaped up, let her scratch him between the ears, and started to eat. "Not five-star," he mused, "but it'll do."

"Is this cannibalism?" Nudge asked uneasily from next to Angel, picking at a piece of perfectly crisped fowl skin with a frown. "Because it kind of feels like cannibalism."

"Are any of us part turkey?" I asked. Rhetorically, of course. Not to be racist, but I'd like to think we were more evolved than _turkeys_.

"Right, but we think I'm pheasant, and—"

"Nudge," I said gently, meeting her eyes and giving her the best reassuring grin I could manage. "Just don't think about it."

I pulled off my windbreaker and let my wings—yes, my _wings_ ; thirteen-almost-fourteen feet of tan, white-speckled _awesome_ courtesy of my two percent hawk genes—unfurl a bit and warm up by the fire as I sank my teeth into dinner. Yep, you read all that right: wings. All six of us.

Iggy, six months my junior and the tallest at six-four, has the biggest set—fifteen feet and a beautiful, solid grey. Fang, the strongest and second-tallest at six-two, has a blue-black wingspan of fourteen and a half feet. Two months younger than me but shot up to _six inches_ taller (and filled out considerably) over the past year. Unbelievable.

Gone were the days when we were evenly matched in a duel in terms of strength and size, unfortunately. But the quicker, smarter, _better_ of us would always prevail. And, yes, that'd be _moi._

At the very least, I was cleverer and more lethal with my words. It was easy to forget that Fang could communicate, some days.

Moving down the line, the flock gets smaller: thirteen-year-old Nudge has beautiful, tawny wings to match her mochaccino skin. Gazzy's are almost as big as hers, even though he's only ten, and barn-owl brown. Then Angel, our littlest at eight, has impeccable, untarnished, all-white wings.

And that's us. The flock. Six wayward experiments that were totally _done_ being just that—experiments. That's all the recap you're getting. For the rest of the details, I'll refer you to books one and two.

"I'm thankful for us. That we're all together. That we're safe. That we have a home out here," said Angel, licking grease off her fingers noisily.

Well, I didn't say we had great manners.

Total made an odd choking sound. "Home!" he scoffed. "Imagine me—an aristocrat! Opulent in my own right!—living in a tent, drinking—bleh!— _lake_ water!"

Fang turned to me and rolled his eyes so powerfully that I half expected them to fall out.

"Imagine that," Gazzy said with a straight face, blue eyes wide. " _Lake_ water."

"It's okay, Total," Angel said. "It could be worse."

I smiled. _That's my girl._

I turned and inspected our campsite. Total was partially right: it certainly wasn't fit for a debutante. But with two tents, a few sleeping bags, a couple of tarps over our heads, a fire pit Iggy and Fang had thrown together, fresh game all around us, and some pots, pans, and utensils we'd acquired, it was better than someplace new every night, better than the Subway tunnels of New York, better than that traitorous witch Anne Walker's house.

Infinitely better than somewhere Erasers or the School (or Itex or the Institute) might find us.

The mountains, covered in beautiful evergreen trees, provided a useful cover for us to fly. When we'd first arrived, me and Iggy (with his heightened, hyper-sharp hearing) had hiked miles and miles up, down, and around the area. Then Fang and I had flown an even wider perimeter, using our raptor vision to look for—well, anything. We found a lot of lakes, a lot of trees, and a _lot_ of bobcats, but no signs of human life.

It was perfectly isolated. We were living as foragers, sure, and our main source of bathing was a spring-fed lake a quarter of a mile away, but it was the happiest and healthiest we'd been since the E-house.

A pang shot through me at the memory. _Don't think about it._

"Hey."

I met Fang's eyes. His face was expressionless, as usual, but he raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking if I was okay. Of course. The second my composure so as much _flickered_ —or I felt _one_ emotion other than faux optimism—and Fang caught it instantly.

A quick once-over revealed that the corners of my mouth were drooping in a contemplative frown. I fixed them immediately. "I'm fine."

Yeah, Max, that'll show him.

I tuned back in to reality just in time to catch the end of the Nudge Channel's latest episode: What I'm Thankful For Is.

"…and this turkey, because it's really good, and that at least we have somewhere warm to sleep at night—I mean, it gets _kind_ of chilly, but sleeping next to Max and Angel keeps me warm—and these jeans that Max found at the consignment shop for five dollars, and that it doesn't rain on us a lot." She took a huge breath in and ended with: "And I'm mostly just thankful that nobody's trying to kill us anymore."

What, _your_ teenage sister isn't thankful for not being hunted?

Ever the pessimist, Iggy snorted. "Yeah. Woohoo."

I reached over to thwack him on the back of the head, but he must've heard my jacket rustle, because he dodged just in time.

"Nudge is right, Iggy. We should be happy that we're safe here," said Angel brightly.

"Overjoyed," Iggy deadpanned, peeling a piece of meat from a wing. "Can hardly contain myself."

I moved more quickly this time and managed to clip his ear. "Watch it!" he said, swatting at me with his free hand.

"Lighten up, Ig," I jabbed, but he still looked less than enthused.

While it had always been hard (understatement) for all of us, it was chronically harder for Iggy; without his sight, he was a whole separate kind of lost in the world. And the worst part was that he _remembered_ what it was like to see. When we'd first found the campsite, he'd asked me what it looked like. "You're not missing much," I'd told him. "Green."

"What _kind_ of green? Like, army green, or evergreen green?" I'd surveyed the area around me. Lots of evergreens. When I told him as much, he nodded, a hint of a sad smile on his face. "That was my favorite color." His use of the past tense haunted me even months later.

Most of my turkey leg was unfinished. I took his free hand in mine and placed the end of the drumstick in it, withdrawing so fast that he didn't have a minute to argue with me.

"Max," he lamented, reaching over to me. "Cut it out. I'm fine. Take it."

"I'm not even that hungry." A lie. "I gorged myself on berries when I was out hunting earlier." Lie. "Plus, there's still some leftover squirrel if I change my mind." Another lie. I mentally begged Angel to keep her mouth shut, if she was listening. "Eat it."

"Would you—"

" _Eat_ it."

"Max—"

"Man, I didn't know he was _deaf,_ too," I said to nobody in particular.

Iggy heaved a massive sigh and grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, " _Women."_ But he ate it and said nothing more, which was good enough for me.

When we'd finished eating, we washed up by the lake and walked back, chilly, clean, and content. "Time to hit the sack," I announced to the younger kids, and I was met by a series of groans. "Long day tomorrow."

"Long _day?_ " Gazzy grumbled. "What do we have planned? _Camping?_ "

"We're going to brush up on flight techniques," I said firmly. More groans. "Hey! We haven't been working our wings nearly as much as we should be. We need to stay on top of things. Plus, me and Fang found a spot with a bunch of starlings hanging around. They're the coolest flyers _ever_."

The Gasman gave me a dead stare.

Blessedly, Fang stopped hanging our lake-washed garments over our makeshift clothesline and turned to back me up. "Very cool," he said. "Very complex."

And just like that, because Fang framed it as a challenge, the Gasman skipped off to their tent, dragging Iggy behind him and chatting about explosives. I would never, ever, _ever_ understand the Y-chromosome.

My face must've looked disgusted, because Fang chuckled as he hung Angel's sequined jeans. "Jealous?"

"What, that you think like a ten-year-old boy?" I quipped, stuffing the cans of vegetables we hadn't used into a bag to stow away in the tent overnight. "Very."

"Once a ten-year-old boy, always a ten-year-old boy," Fang said with a smirk.

"Go away."

Fang laughed quietly again. He sat down on one of the logs to start banking what was left of the fire. The light from the flames chased the shadows from his face, leaving just _Fang_ —his sun-warmed, olive-toned complexion; his strong cheekbones; his endless, impenetrable eyes—

I tripped over a root and barely caught myself from face planting. What was _wrong_ with me? It had been happening more and more often; I was getting distracted and lost in my own head.

Fang raised an amused eyebrow at me. "Too much turkey?"

"Yeah. You know what they say about tryptophan."

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Fang said.

"Is this the part of the cliché where I ask what it is that I didn't have to do?"

Fang shot me a look that said, _Spare me._ "The turkey leg. He would've gotten over it. He always does."

I shrugged and sat next to him on the log, picking up a dead branch and poking the embers with it. "Yeah, but that's what I hate," I said quietly. "He shouldn't _have_ to."

"Get over it?"

"He shouldn't have anything to even _have_ to get over."

Silence met that one.

We prodded the fire for a couple of minutes, Fang separating the ash and slowly flicking it over the coals. The light began to die away, and the heat with it. I shivered and rubbed my arms with my hands.

"Maybe next time. When we're all reincarnated into real people. Or even real _birds._ Or squids, or elephants, or slugs. Anything would be better than this."

Fang was quiet again. After a minute, he spoke with a straight face. "I wouldn't mind being a snake."

My face screwed up immediately. I hated, hated, _hated_ snakes, and Fang knew it. "Blech," I spat, shaking my head in disgust. "God, you just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

He laughed quietly and stood, offering me a hand. I took it and then used my stick to help him brush the last bits of ash over the glowing coals.

Fang and I walked back to the tents together. Between Iggy's supercharged hearing, Fang and I's impossibly light sleeping habits, and the anatomy of the forest around us, nothing would catch us too off-guard out here, so the days of staying up for watch were far behind us.

Fang clapped a hand over my shoulder and nodded his chin ever so slightly.

"Bright and early?" I said.

"It's a date," he said, and he ducked into the tent, leaving me flustered and flushed in his wake.

* * *

 _A/N: Welcome, y'all!_

 _To start: this takes place about a year after SOF, but I've aged the flock a bit more than that._

 _Why, you ask?_

 _Because I hate writing in the POV of a fourteen-year-old. The closer to eighteen I can get them without sacrificing too much time, the better. It also allows me to give them a more colorful (and therefore more authentic) vocabulary. Like, c'mon, James Patterson, you can't tell me a group of experimented-on, parentless, miserable teens and preteens wouldn't be dropping f-bombs and other fun four-letter words all the time._

 _Anyway, Max and Fang are approximately sixteen, Iggy fifteen and a half, Nudge thirteen, Gazzy ten, and Angel eight here._

 _Otherwise, this will be canon. If at any point I diverge, I'll give you some warning._

 _For those of you that read In the Woods Somewhere, these chapters will probably be shorter in terms of word count. I've found that my workflow is overall quicker—e.g., I write faster—without the pressure of "omg this chapter needs to be ten pages in my word doc."_

 _I didn't plan on publishing this this soon, but I've been writing faster than I could've hoped. Forgot how much I loved canon._

 _Buckle up!_


	2. TWO

TWO

I woke up what felt like seconds later to Fang gently shaking my shoulder from the flap of the tent.

"Hey," he said, a whisper of a smile on his lips. The sunlight hit the planes of his face like the fire had last night, making me blush.

The sunlight was _also_ burning holes through my retinas. "Ugh," was the charismatic response I came up with.

"It lives."

"It _sleeps._ " I closed my eyes again. "God, it's bright."

"And early, too, funnily enough. You would think we'd planned it."

I ignored his idiocy. "How is it tomorrow already?"

"What's the line you used to deal to us every morning? 'Another day—'"

"'—get up and face it,'" we finished together.

Fang chuckled. "Been trying to _get you up_ to _face_ _it_ for five minutes."

Now he was _really_ trying to be funny. It was impressive he'd even been able to unzip the tent without me putting him in a stranglehold, so the odds that he'd been shaking me awake for any longer than half a second were slim to none. "Liar."

"Maybe." He shrugged, smiling again.

His hair was getting long—I'd whacked most of it off six months ago, but he was overdue for another cut. Gone were the days of 2008 Gerard Way-Fang, to _everyone's_ relief (including Fang's, I suspected), but those luscious locks of his grew like a weed.

"Maybe not," he added.

I pulled myself up to a sitting position, rubbing my forehead, which had started to ache.

Next to me, Nudge shot up onto one forearm, beautiful eyes half-open, hair a frizzy disaster atop her head. "Wha'?"

"Everything's fine," I whispered, rubbing her back. "Go back to sleep. Fang and I will be down by the lake if you need us."

Nudge grumbled in response and fell back asleep instantly. Next to her, Angel didn't budge as Total burrowed a bit closer to her side.

Outside the tent, the morning was overcast. Thick cumulonimbus clouds were beginning to roll in from the west. It was chilly, so I shook some life into my arms and legs.

"So much for being thankful for sunny skies," Fang murmured as we started to walk.

I withheld a sigh. Because _rain_ was what we needed. I was already pretty sure I was coming down with something. A headache that wouldn't quit, a scratchy throat here and there. Now with late fall rolling in, even with our fantastic cell regeneration and immune systems, it was likely I'd get a case of the sniffles, at the very least.

"You're quiet," said Fang.

I snorted. "Pot, meet kettle."

"Ha-ha," he retorted drily. "Seriously. Everything alright?"

I rubbed my temples again, nodding. I was going to be seriously _not_ alright if he kept riding me about this.

"Yeah. Just a headache. I think I'm just getting stir crazy. Or stuck in my own head. Or both."

"Stir crazy," Fang said, seeming to consider this. "Stuck in your own head. Huh. Sounds _nothing_ like you."

"Ha-ha."

Fang stopped walking. We were about a hundred yards from the lakeshore. I could see his dark eyes scrutinizing my furrowed brow, my tightened jaw. "You sure you're fine to spar?"

"If you ask me if I'm okay one more time, I will personally see to it that you never walk again."

Fang smirked and took several steps back, hands up, palms out in a white flag gesture.

I stretched my arms out in front of me, shook out my wings, bounced on my tiptoes. The coolness of the morning was forcing my blood to pump, and I felt remarkably more awake than I had ten minutes before. My head even felt a bit clearer.

Because we'd been doing this every morning for the better part of a year, I knew that Fang wouldn't start on the offensive. He almost never did. As a result, I'd gotten pretty good at finding creative ways to land the first blow, or at least trick him into doing so.

Today, I went with a new tactic. I opened my wings as fast as I could and flapped violently, stirring dirt, pine needles, and leaves into the air while managing the always-difficult standstill takeoff. Once in the air, I gave the dirt a split second to settle. The moment I caught a glance of Fang's black mop of hair, I folded my wings in and dropped, landing a kick to his hunched shoulders.

Fang dropped like a sack of unsuspecting flour on the dirt but was back on his feet before I could even reset in my old position. He launched himself at me. I dodged easily, catching a punch to the side of his head. He flung his right foot out behind him as he passed me and I went flying over it, losing my footing and slamming to the ground on my hands and knees.

"You _tripped_ me?" I cried incredulously. I brushed myself off, stood, and started to laugh. "You're losing your touch, Fni—"

Fang launched his wings open, stirring up more silt and debris. I peered through the dirt and saw his fist just before it clipped me—I dodged to the left, but a roundhouse kick was waiting for me there.

His boot hit my rib cage so hard that I saw stars. I stopped, dropped and barrel rolled as far as my momentum would take me. About fifty feet from the lake's edge, I forced myself to my feet and lowered into a defensive crouch.

Across from me, Fang did the same.

We sprinted at each other. I changed my trajectory by half a degree with my last stride, missing him, and spun on my left toes at the last second, slamming my right heel square between his shoulders.

He pitched forward but turned to face me mid-fall, grabbing my foot on his way down. I yelped, thinking we were both about to face plant, but at the last second he righted himself and caught the mindless punch I'd unknowingly let sail with his palm.

We were both panting. Before I registered that we'd both stopped moving, Fang pulled me so closely to him that our faces were only inches apart. His breaths were warm against my lips and I froze—what the _hell_ was he—

I caught the smirk a millisecond too late. With a _smack_ Fang had dropped us to the ground. Whatever oxygen I had left in me gushed into the November air with an _oof_ as I fell to my back with him on top of me. His knees straddled my waist, kneecaps gently pressing against my secondaries. It wasn't enough pressure to really hurt, but enough to seriously damage my feathers if I tried to jerk too quickly out of the way.

I wheezed for air and cursed my throbbing skull. That stupid smirk was still on his face, growing impossibly bigger with each passing moment. His arms, wiry and strong, had my hands trapped by my head.

He grinned so widely that he bared those infamous canines of his. "Might be my quickest pin."

My mind was whirring in overdrive, trying to find a way out. "We're just getting started," I snarled. A classic Max move: buying for time with smack-talk.

I bucked against him. No luck. He weighed a freaking _ton._

With all my strength, I shoved my forearms forward and tried breaking his hold. Nope.

He raised an eyebrow, putting more weight on my wings with his knees. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from hissing in pain.

Then he was lowering his face to mine again with that crooked smile on those annoying lips of his, whispering, "Say uncle."

This time, I didn't allow myself a second of _what the_ hell _is he doing_ —although I'd _definitely_ be revisiting that later. Instead, I spit as powerfully as I could muster into his face.

It disoriented him enough for me to scrabble out from under him and circle behind. By the time he'd made it to his knees, I'd leaped on his back, wrapped my legs around his waist, cinched them at the ankles, and used my weight to force our center of gravity backward.

Again, I fell flat on my back with Fang on top of me, this time his back to my chest. His arms were bound at his sides by my thighs, my booted left heel was pressing considerably into a very warm, very soft part of his more _painful_ anatomy, and my elbow was hooked around his throat, putting so much force on his Adam's apple that I could feel his pulse pounding into my forearm.

He was positively crushing me, but, what the hey, that didn't matter, because I'd totally kicked his ass. For those of you at home keeping score, that'd be Fang: zero, Max: one billion. Who run the world? I'll give you a hint: it certainly ain't men.

I felt him try once, twice, three separate times to bust out of his binding, but he could barely even lift a finger in his position. I lifted my head from the dirt, placing my mouth ever so close to the shell of his ear, because two could play at this game.

"Say uncle," I breathed.

Insert proverbial mic drop.

Fang made a gurgly noise that sounded very much unlike any word I'd ever heard.

"Going to need you to repeat that," I said. "Didn't sound very much like _uncle_ to me."

I released the pressure on his windpipe, knowing I still had him pinned even if I asphyxiated him a little less. He'd gone still as a stone, and when he spoke, it was a barely audible rasp. "Shut up. I hear something _."_

A word to everyone: if you ever need me on the balls of my feet, all senses on high alert, ready to seriously crack some skulls, try saying those five words. Works like a charm, apparently.

In seconds, I was forcing Fang to his feet. We stood back to back, the lake to my left, the expanding forest—and our campsite—to my right.

And then I heard it, too—heavy footfalls to our northwest. I felt my muscles unlock a fragment. Our campsite was southwest, so that bought us some time. Unless there were more of them.

But who _were_ they?

 _Angel, Angel, Angel_ , I thought with as much power as I could. _Wake up, U and A, go!_

There was no chance she heard me from a quarter of a mile away while deeply asleep, but it was always worth a shot.

Behind me, Fang was totally still. I could barely even feel the expansion of his chest when he inhaled. "Hikers?" he breathed hopefully to me over his shoulder.

But then my nose caught the smell. It was so distinct, bringing with it memories and pain and suffering. And it was so _near—_ we couldn't have been more than a mile downwind of them.

They were close. And they were coming. And they were _relentless._

"Oh, no," I whispered. Whatever fractured sense of well-being we'd come to know dissolved immediately in my chest. The dread spread through my blood like a poison. "Fang. _Erasers._ "

Before I could finish saying it, a colorful stream of curse words started tumbling out of Fang's mouth. He could smell them, too. The very first thing that crossed my mind was the end of Nudge's gratefulness rant the night before: _I'm mostly just thankful that nobody's trying to kill us anymore._

"Do you think they—" _know we're here?_

"They've got to," Fang said under his breath, answering my question before I even asked it. "Why else would _they_ be here?"

Oh, God.

Erasers _._

 _Not again_.

Fang and I took off running together. The priority was getting out and getting out _fast._ If they found Iggy and the kids asleep and unprotected, they'd pick them off one by one. _Oh, God._

We'd never measured how fast we could run, but any one of us would certainly leave Usain Bolt in the dust. Although we've never competed in a stamina race, I could beat every single one of the flock in a sprint. Including Fang, much to his unspoken dismay.

But none of that mattered now. We cut through the forest with precision, weaving through trees and rocks and bushes as fast as our legs could carry us.

" _Up!_ " I bellowed. I pulled away from Fang, pounding into the pine needles with my feet. It was a quarter of a mile, but it couldn't have taken me longer than thirty seconds. Fang was only maybe ten paces behind me.

I roared into the campsite so quickly that I slipped on a patch of leaves and twisted my ankle.

 _Pain is just a message. Send the message to voicemail. Also, your brain is on the other line; it says to_ get your shit together _or everyone's going to die._

I was going to need to have a very firm conversation with my conscience re: its borderline abusive tendencies once we escaped today's death trap.

" _Everybody up!_ " I cried in a voice that could only signify danger. I heard their low grumbles as they startled awake. "Move!"

Fang screamed up behind me and ripped open the flap to the boys' tent, punching them awake, grabbing packs and cramming essentials into them before forcing them into their sleepy hands.

"Move, move, _move!_ " I repeated, dragging myself to my feet. With the adrenaline pumping, my ankle was painless and functional. "U and A, U and A!"

Now Fang was shoving the girls out of their tent and tossing backpacks after them. I scrambled around the clearing, haphazardly grabbing the clothes we'd hung out to dry in my pack, jamming windbreakers onto half-sleeping, half-panicked bodies, and gathering whatever skimpy food supplies we had around before surveying the area one last time.

The Erasers had heard us, alright. The footfalls were slamming through the underbrush. Deep, gruff voices were shouting words I couldn't understand in my panic. I heard the beginning signs of a struggle, the _pop_ s of gunshots. Who were they hurting? Was it us they were searching for? Maybe they'd just coincidentally stumbled upon us, maybe they weren't Erasers at all—maybe they were just run-of-the-mill human murderers.

Yeah, Max. Humans that reeked of blood and murder and School and _dog._ Keep telling yourself that.

Behind me, I saw Fang throw Angel into the air. Then Gazzy. Nudge and Iggy had managed running starts and were hovering, waiting for the rest of us.

One, two, three, four, five, six… oh, no—

"Total—!"

"Iggy's got him," Fang called, grabbing for his backpack. "Let's go."

" _L west! Pronto!_ " I hollered. Which meant _fifty miles_ east _, we'll meet up there._ "Go!" When they didn't budge from where they were hovering: " _Go!_ "

"Cutting it close," Fang yelled over to me impatiently. He took a few steps back before sprinting and throwing his giant black wings open. He pumped them once, twice, three times, his figure growing smaller and smaller with each huge gush of air.

I backpedaled a bit myself, crushed my backpack to my chest, and took the deepest breath I could muster. Fang was already breaking through the morning fog above us by the time I jumped, so I unfurled my own wings, searching feebly for his slipstream, using all my strength to make myself move faster, to move more efficiently, to _move, move, move—_

And then there was an impossible, incredible, un _thinkable_ pain in the middle of my back, just below my left wing. A pain I'd only ever experienced once before, on the streets of Arizona.

I'd been shot.

 _Again_.

The shock was so powerful that I forgot to flap—I tried to start up again but the pain screamed through every muscle of my back, every cell of my body. I heard myself wail and then— _wham!—_ another explosion of fire just below the first one, and I was falling, falling, falling.

I smacked to the ground on my stomach with enough force to stop me from breathing for several seconds. At least two ribs cracked. When I could finally suck in a lungful of air I yelped with pain—God, every movement I made hurt—the wounds were white-hot and burning— _who the hell shot me?_

At this point I became acutely aware that whoever my attacker was—and all signs pointed to human-lupine hybrid—definitely had the upper hand now, and I was either dead or as good as.

 _Been a good life,_ I thought miserably. _I'll be sad to see it go._

Booted feet dropped to the ground several feet away and then Fang's calculated stride was racing toward me.

"Fuck," he muttered, but it sounded distant and convoluted, either from the pain or the lack of oxygen or the headache or all three.

My breaths were shallow because they were all I could manage—my exhales were half-screams because I could channel the pain, I could expel it—it was just a message, and I could forward that message, or put it on hold—

Fang knelt next to me and dropped a hand to my shoulder. "Max." He ducked to meet my eyes, looking about as worried as Fang could get.

"I'm fine," I gasped. I tried to press my hands into the dirt beneath me so I could stand, or sit up, or something, but my entire back was an explosion of torturous agony. I collapsed pitifully.

Okay, maybe _fine_ wasn't the most fantastic of word choices.

His head jerked to the side, like he was listening for something, and then suddenly his eyes were wild and his hand was curling around mine, ready to pull me up and away. I yanked it back as forcefully as I could, crying out in pain. "Fang—I can't—I can't move—"

The footsteps arrived and stopped maybe twenty feet off. Fang rose to his full height and stood by my head with his arms spread defensively. A murderous growl thundered low in his throat. It was a sound I'd never heard from him, but one I understood after he spat two syllables into the clearing.

"Ari."


	3. THREE

A/N: FYI—I diverged a bit from canon here—I up-aged Ari. See end A/N for rationale, angry rant, etc.

* * *

THREE

My stomach dropped.

I raised my head a fraction to look at him, fighting the bursts of lightning that shot through every muscle, nerve, and tendon. Eraserfied, massive, and ugly—this was the form of the twelve-year-old boy that Jeb had terrifyingly called my "brother." He looked more mutated than he had six months ago, more rugged, but his face was full of fear now, bringing out the features I remembered about him, like his crooked nose and his kind, hooded eyes.

While I reminisced, Fang was preparing to kill him; it was palpable in the air.

The gun clattered to the ground and Ari raised his hands shoulder-high. He was breathing heavily—far too heavily to be healthy. "I'm not trying to hurt you," he managed.

Fang advanced on him, light on his toes, ready to surge forward if necessary. "Had me fooled," he snarled.

Ari raised his hands even higher and kicked the gun away from himself. It skittered to Fang, who picked it up and removed the magazine before throwing both pieces back to me.

This was when I started to notice Ari's physical appearance. An impressive smear of blood trailed down his front. It did not look to be his own. Shredded denim—formerly known as _pants—_ clung to his legs like long, slimy seaweed. Four giant claw marks marred the right side of his face all the way down to his shoulder. The entire right half of his body was crimson. The significance of that was not lost on me—a massive vessel had been severed, probably in his neck, and the blood was a few too shades of vermillion to be venous in nature. It was an arterial bleed. Carotid, probably.

Ari was dying. He had minutes to live.

Fang lunged forward and Ari desperately yelled, "No!" as he took a retreating step, one knee faltering so badly that he could barely stop himself from falling. Fang's eyes flitted to me. By the time he turned back, Ari had fallen to his knees and was seeking my eyes, pressing a large hand against his bleeding neck.

"I'm sorry," he continued in that exhausted, breathy voice. His eyes were absolutely piercing, a heart-stopping shade of sapphire only shared by Jeb. "I had to stop you. I couldn't let you go."

This desperation, this _sincerity_ reminded me of pre-Eraser Ari, the cute, fluffy-haired, blue-eyed boy who had marveled at my wings, who had snuck me extra portions of food when the Whitecoats had their backs turned, who had taught me how to play chess one day through the bars of my cage. I felt a squeeze in my chest somewhere that had nothing to do with the holes in my back.

Fang, who was not nearly as sentimental as me, puffed his wings open massively, another inhuman sound rattling from deep within him.

"No!" Ari said again. "No, I mean—" He forced in a giant breath of air and braced himself against a giant oak. "I'm dying," he blurted.

Neither of us said anything. Wordlessly, Ari turned around, flipped down the collar of his shirt, and gestured to his neck. I could vaguely make out a barcode, a series of numbers, but by the way Fang stiffened, I could tell that whatever he saw there proved Ari wasn't lying.

"My expiration date. It's today. I'm dying."

Despite this revelation, Fang remained an unmoving vessel of coiled rage. "You have thirty seconds before I expedite that process."

"The rest of them—they're dead," Ari said, leaning forward to catch his breath. "The Erasers. I killed them. But they'll send more—the School knows you're here."

"Why tell us?" I squeezed out.

 _He's only twelve,_ I reminded myself.A kid. And his life had been full of nothing but hate, inhumanity, and indecency. Jeb was the only person Ari had in the world, and although Jeb had let us all down exponentially, he'd let his biological son down the very most.

He looked near to tears. "I did so many bad things to you. Because I was told to. And I didn't know better. And if I'm going to die, I need to try to make it right, somehow, even if it's nothing—even if it pales in comparison to all the terrible things I've done." He took a deep breath. "You need to leave. Go north. The answer is in Boston. The company is Vector. Take them out, and it's over."

"Why would I ever believe you?" Fang challenged.

"Because I was a pawn in a game I never signed up for, too. And now it's going to kill me. As a twelve-year-old trapped in a wolf-man's body." A pained, deathly laugh broke through his lips, bringing bubbling blood with it. "Truth really is stranger than fiction, isn't it?"

My vision was swirling; flecks of black and white were frosting my periphery. I heard Ari call out an apology and then the field was silent, save for the gentle rustle of the autumn breeze.

Fang said nothing. We both listened for a long moment. Through the trees, from somewhere down by the lake, there was a pained howl. I somehow knew it was Ari's last breath.

Seeming to snap out of some sort of reverie, Fang dropped to his knees again. He cupped my chin with one hand, eyes blazing. "Is anything broken?" The very detectable note of worry in his voice jarred me from my own darkness.

I groaned. "No—but it hurts like a—"

He pulled his hand from my face and shuffled out of view. "Lungs are fine?" He tugged up the back of my shirt and inhaled sharply through his nose. Then his hands, calloused and deft, were assessing. "Didn't hit an air sac, did he?"

"No, I don't think—"

"Bone?"

"A couple of ribs, I think—"

"That would explain the pain."

"You _think?_ "

"Quit moving," he said tersely.

"That bad?"

Fang paused. Because that alone was an answer in and of itself, I braced for a lie. But instead, he said tightly, "Looks like it. Lots of blood. Don't think they hit anything important, though."

My mind was still stuck on Ari, on what had happened. Had he really killed the Erasers for us? Had he truly only shot me to ground me? So he could tell us about this company called Vector in Boston?

Somehow, I knew what he said was true. "I believe him," I gasped to Fang. Because Ari had no reason to lie anymore, no loyalties to keep. I felt it in my gut.

I pushed my hands under me in an attempt to stand up, but he shoved me back down by my shoulders. "Nope."

"Is he—?" I choked out.

"Gone," Fang said, confirming what I already knew. His lips were set in a thin line. "Dead."

Deep down, I felt a sliver of sadness.

The others started to land, because apparently nobody follows the commands of their leader anymore. A cloud of dust swirled up, making me cough. I spent the next ten seconds trying to swallow my shouts of pain as I balled my hands up into the tightest fists that I could manage. I dug my fingernails into my palms. _Just a message. Text it back later._

Fang's hands started ripping the back of my soiled shirt open. My wings were half-spread, wilted like a fallen parachute around me, but I didn't think I could move them without crying.

"What the hell happened?" Iggy asked urgently, dropping to his knees by my feet. He sucked in a breath—I assumed he smelled gunpowder and blood. "Where are they?"

"Coast is clear for now," Fang said. He was avoiding the question, I knew. True or not, Ari's dying declaration would change everything, shatter whatever peace we'd had going for us, and this exact second wasn't an ideal time to hash it all out.

"You got _shot?_ " Gazzy pushed through the flock-circle around me, wide eyes stricken with fear and a thirst for revenge. "Are you okay?"

Nudge's voice, timid and young, broke through the chaos. "Max…?"

"Can you feel this?" Iggy said. He was curt and clinical, all business.

This wasn't uncommon for Iggy—when one of us was injured, typically a time of extreme stress for the rest of us, he was a fantastic compartmentalizer. Fang was typically blinded by the anger and resentment that his terrible upbringing at the School had gifted him. I was poorly adjusted, just in different ways, because of the very same upbringing. I was haunted by anxiety, was stubborn to a fault, and was paranoid about losing my flock. I panicked underneath the Leader Mask. I withheld crushing emotions until I was sawing my arm open on a beach. I acted wholly with my heart—never with my brain.

Iggy, though, tended to be level-headed. To be functional. He was also, for whatever reason, a magician with a first aid kit. So it was Iggy who was brushing his fingers over my shins and tapping my toes through the top of my boots.

"Yeah," I forced out. "Not paralyzed. Just _kills_."

His feathery fingers were on my back now, delicate and sure as they danced over my skin. "Seems like your left lat took most of the hit. This one's low—don't think it went deep enough to hit your kidney, but we'll have to be certain. Who the hell shot you?" Then, before Fang could deflect again: "Where's the gun?"

"Here," Gazzy said. It clacked in his hand.

"What is it?"

"What do you _mean_ what is it? It's a _gun_!" I cried. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain—God, it freaking hurt.

"I mean what _kind_ of a gun! I need to know what I'm looking for, here."

 _Bullets, Iggy._ "There are two—two holes," I gasped instead.

"I know, Max, I'll get them—" I sucked in a quick breath as he found something particularly painful, "—sorry, sorry—Fang, hand me those tweezers, the gauze—thank you—wait, no, the bigger gauze—yep, and the antiseptic—"

Somebody was dumping ice cold liquid all over me and I sank my teeth into my arm and bit as hard as I could to keep from shrieking as it bubbled and burned like acid on my flesh.

Nudge handed me a rolled-up shirt to shove between my teeth. "It's okay, Max," she said, looking scared. "Iggy and Fang are here, you're going to be okay, you're going to be fine…"

"Course I am." I tried to say it in between pants without sounding like I was being tortured. I don't think it worked. "Don't you know who you're talking to?"

Angel was hiding behind Nudge, eyes full of tears. I gave her what was probably a horrifying attempt at a grin. "I'm going to be fine, everything's fine, I just— _aaaahhhh_." Iggy dug deeper into the first wound and I gnashed my teeth into the shirt and whimpered pathetically.

"Maybe a little _gentler?_ " I growled.

"Describe the gun to me," Iggy barked.

Nobody said anything for a minute. Then Gazzy, timidly: "Should it be bleeding that much…?"

"Somebody describe the damn gun to me!"

"Um, I don't know," Gazzy said nervously. "Uh—it's kind of small, I guess, for a gun, and it's black—"

"Who's letting the ten-year-old play with the weapon?" Iggy shouted. "Fang—?"

Fang rattled off a slew of words I didn't recognize. Apparently, guns have their own language now. America _._

"Think it's a nine-millimeter," Fang concluded. I heard some noises that sounded like he was removing the bullets and tossing the cartridge. Then I heard a clinking sound. "Yep."

Iggy withdrew his hands from my back. "Fang, take the tweezers and see if you can get one of these—they're not too deep, they're just stubborn. Hand me the gun. Need to feel it."

"Is this worse than last time?" Fang asked somewhere above me.

In my pain-filled deliriousness, I considered the differences between being shot once in the shoulder (and wing) with a shotgun and being shot in the back twice with a smaller handgun. While neither had been fun, my current situation seemed to take the cake, to my own surprise.

I considered lying. Saying it felt the same. But what good would that do any of us? I was working on having better self-preservation techniques, mostly because I knew Fang would kick my ass into next week if I kept gambling with my own life to protect other people.

So instead, I told the truth. "Worse," I admitted. "This is why—why I don't let us play with—guns," I forced out between huffs of breath. I squeezed my eyes shut as Fang started tugging what had to be a bullet from just beneath one of my wings. "Oh, _God_ , if there's _any_ way we could speed this up—"

"Trying," Fang said, poking around some more.

"Huh. I think this is a Kel-Tec PF9," Iggy said under his breath.

"What does that mean?" said Nudge.

"That whoever shot you wasn't shooting to kill," he said, furrowing his brows. Then he turned to Fang and I with confused, blind eyes. "What the hell happened down here?"

There was an agonizing tugas Fang ripped a bullet free. It felt like he took a chunk of muscle the size of my fist with it. A colorful stream of swear words fell from my mouth.

Fang's voice was confused. "What the…"

I could count on one hand the number of times Fang had openly expressed confusion. The fact that one of the times was _now_ , when I was full of bullets, wasn't particularly reassuring to me. "What?"

"The bullet." Fang said, as if this were an adequate answer.

" _What?"_

Fang held the bullet between the tweezers in front of me. What looked like a tiny, bloodied grappling hook protruded from the end of it.

"Whaaaaaat?" intoned the Gasman.

Angel peeked over her brother's shoulder, cornflower eyes still rimmed with tears. "What _is_ that?"

"The School is stepping their game up," Fang said. His voice was ominous. "This is cruel, even for them."

"Anyone going to fill me in, here?" Iggy growled in frustration.

Fang quietly explained the bullet to Iggy, who was beside himself with amazement.

"The other ones are still shaped like normal bullets," Iggy said in wonder, rolling one of them between his fingers. He tapped its tip, but nothing happened. "This is fascinating. It must be some sort of mechanism that deploys after the bullet penetrates the skin; it opens to imbed in the—"

I hissed as Fang started probing again. " _Fascinating_ may not be my word of choice. _God_ , Fang, can you _hang on for a_ —"

Fang was relentless. "We don't know what else these things can do once they're in you, Max. It's gotta come out."

I felt the tweezers grip on the second bullet; this one was a lot deeper and a _lot_ closer to something painful. "God dammit," I said through my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I could. "Fang, _give_ me a second. _Shit_ , this hurts."

Fang stopped moving. "Think of the turkey leg. Gather up all that womanly strength."

Before I could come up with some snappy comeback, Fang was yanking, the bullet was out, I was gasping for breath, and tears were leaking out of the corners of my eyes.

What could only be Iggy's gentle fingers prodded where the bullet had been. I moaned pitifully. "Well, it didn't hit your kidney."

"Joy of joys," I muttered.

Fang dumped more antiseptic on my back, dabbing tenderly at it as he went along. Then he smeared some ointment on both wounds, covered them with a generous amount of gauze, and taped me up. By the time it was all said and done, every inch of me was throbbing.

"Sorry," Fang said softly.

His hands were covered with blood—my blood—and he nonchalantly wiped them off on his thighs. Then he leaned back on his heels and eyed the flock. When he caught my exhausted nod, he let out the tiniest of tired sighs.

"It was Ari," he said to the flock finally.

Yeah, _that_ went over well.

Nudge blinked. "Ari?"

" _Ari?"_ Iggy was incredulous.

Fang helped pull me to a sitting position. I clenched my teeth together so tightly that I was certain they'd shatter, but altogether managed to keep myself from crying like a little bitch. I leaned against a pine tree and pressed my head back against it, fighting the dizziness that threatened to take me.

Fang produced a shirt from his pack. With some difficulty, we pulled my destroyed one off and replaced it with his dry, clean one. My sports bra and entire back were saturated with blood. So were Fang and Iggy's shirts. But now that the bullets were out and the holes were dressed, I felt like I could breathe.

"What did _Ari_ want?" Iggy asked. He opened a bottle of water and poured it over Fang's hands so he could scrub the blood off. Fang then did the same for Iggy. "Another shot at Fang?"

"Apparently, another shot at _Max_ ," Gazzy muttered.

"Where the hell did he go?" Iggy asked. "You finish him off?"

I felt that squeeze again in my heart. "He's dead. Expiration date." I couldn't bring myself to explain the gorefest.

Little whoops and cheers met this statement, but it felt wrong, so wrong.

"He said he turned on the Erasers that were after us. Killed them all. He warned us the School knew where we were and that they'd send more Erasers once they realized the other ones weren't coming back."

Fang started shoving first aid supplies in his backpack. "Said something about a company named Vector in Boston. Implied they were the heart of the hydra, told us to go."

"The heart of the _huh_?" said Gazzy.

Iggy ignored him. "And _why_ are we believing him?"

Fang looked to me. I knew he didn't trust Ari as far as he could throw him, especially not after Ari almost killed him in Maryland last year.

He gestured with his head in the general direction of where we'd initially heard the Erasers. "Gonna check it out." Before he disappeared into the forest, he shot me a look that said, _We'll discuss this later._

I turned to Iggy and sighed, feeling entirely too tired to justify myself. "You have to remember that Ari is one of us." Iggy opened his mouth to talk, but I cut him off. "He was a normal little kid once, too. He wanted a normal life. They turned him into a weapon." I thought about what he said: _I was a pawn in a game I never signed up for, too._

"He _chose_ to be evil."

"They _chose_ to _make_ him evil. They raised him to fight. They made him into a monster, Iggy. Remember him? Before?"

"Exactly," Iggy said. He pulled off his soiled, tattered t-shirt and replaced it with a slightly less soiled, less tattered one. Then he pulled his windbreaker on over it. "That was _before._ "

"He said he wanted to try to right some wrongs, however small, before he died."

Iggy looked completely unconvinced. "Was this before or after he shot you?"

Nudge, predictably, agreed with me. "I think Max is right," she said quietly. "We didn't ask to be made into birdkids. But at least we have each other. At least Jeb got us out. Ari didn't ask to be left there, didn't askto be turned into an Eraser. They made him so evil, and since he had no one to guide him or teach him right from wrong or stand up for him, it was all he knew… I know you hate him, but _think_ about it, Iggy."

Iggy is full of hard-to-find soft spots, though he'd never admit it. But it had been clear to me since we were young that his biggest soft spot of all was for Nudge. Their crates had been next to each other. And with the Whitecoats often taking Fang and I together for more invasive, more inhumane experiments, Iggy and Nudge were typically left to their own devices. The Gasman and Angel were still little kids, then. So Iggy took Nudge—no pun intended—under his wing, and Nudge became his eyes.

So while he'd stubbornly rejected every rational thing I'd said, he actually _listened_ to Nudge. I could practically see the cogs of his mind whirring as he considered her words.

"It could be a trap," he said finally.

"It could always be a trap," I said. I pushed myself up against the bark of the tree, gasping pathetically as I did. "Once we clear out of this area, log a few hundred miles, we'll look up this company on the laptop."

Fang reappeared from the tree line, shaking his head. "Well, they're definitely dead," he said. He saw me struggling to stand and grabbed my arm, hauling me up with scrutinizing eyes.

From his back, he produced his pack, which looked near to bursting. "Grabbed as much of our stuff as we could take with us."

The tents would have to be left behind. And the sleeping bags. The tarps. I sighed. Starting over, on the run, desperate. _Again._

But now was not the time to think that way. We needed to go. Immediately. When I said as much, I was met by five very nervous faces.

"Max…" Nudge said, wide eyes looking me up and down. I was still sticky with half-dried blood and probably a ghostly shade of pale.

Fang held out a water bottle and I washed my hands. My pants were filthy, but I'd deal with them later.

"I'm fine," I said. "I feel better than I did ten minutes ago. But we can't hang here—even if Ari _was_ lying, we can't chance it."

"You can't fly," Fang said. His tone indicated that it was not up for discussion.

I gritted my teeth and spread my right wing, holding my breath against the pain. But when I tried to spread the left one, it actually doubled me over.

Fang hooked an elbow under my armpit, apparently concerned I was going to collapse. I wasn't entirely convinced I wasn't.

"Okay," I panted. "So that's not going to work. We could try to go by foot…"

Fang sighed and held his arms open pointedly. When I didn't move, he sighed harder.

"Let's go," he said to the flock, jerking his thumb in the air. Then he scooped me into his arms too quickly for me to dodge or protest.

Iggy took off first with Total in his arms, then Angel, then Gazzy and Nudge. Fang managed a decent jog and catapulted off a rock, unfurling his wings and beating them powerfully through the fog. His face showed no signs of strain, but I knew it had to be difficult.

"Always too proud to ask for help," he quipped once we were at an acceptable cruising altitude. "It'll be the death of you."

"Showoff," I muttered. I caught a glimpse of the smallest of smiles on his face, radiant in the morning sun.

* * *

A/N: I diverged from canon again a bit here. I mentioned my qualms with the flock's ages. Don't even get me _started_ on Ari. To be brief:

James Patterson's Ari is seven years old. He has been grafted with lupine DNA and made into an Eraser. Great. He is still supposed to be _seven_ _years_ _old_ —why the _hell_ does he act like a homeless 24-year-old withdrawing from heroin? There's no logical explanation for any of this in the novels. Like, picture a game of soccer being played by seven-year-olds. Now picture _Ari_ , excelling in hand-to-hand combat _._ In book two, James Patterson has the nerve to write self-harm content—Ari BITING himself because pain feels good—about a SEVEN-YEAR-OLD.

Secondly, if Ari is only seven, that means he was only three when the flock escaped the School. That doesn't leave a lot of room for Max to have established much of a relationship at all with him.

Pardon my language, but give me a fucking break. There are SO many parts to these books that frustrate me to no end (Max's hair color is probably number one, I'm not even capable of discussing this without losing my cool), but I can't even express the rage this concept makes me feel.

Thank you for all the story followers—PLEASE review if you are enjoying! Seriously, just a little "I'm reading" is enough to keep me cranking out chapters.


	4. FOUR

FOUR

We'd only flown for fifteen minutes or so when shit hit the fan again.

 _Already._

I don't know why these things still surprise me, to be frank.

Fang called to the flock that we'd stop to rest once we made it to Pennsylvania, but I was too focused on not panicking to pay much attention. Admittedly, it was a little bit terrifying to be _carried_ this high up. Like, imagine riding on top of an airplane (only four hundred miles per hour or so slower). Of course, I knew Fang would never drop me, and if I somehow _did_ fall, Iggy was flying directly below us as a backup. These facts unfortunately do not change the innate survival instinct in all of us that recommends we don't dangle thousands of feet in the air. Unless we have, you know, wings that aren't out of commission due to gun violence.

Obviously, I would not be giving Fang the satisfaction of knowing I was capable of fear. So I started messing with him, as I've been known to do.

"You sure you can carry me for that long?"

Fang rolled his eyes. "You're not _that_ heavy."

"Oh, I know. I was more concerned about your well-being and safety." When Fang didn't take the bait, I raised my voice. "You know, especially after I kicked your ass this—"

Insert that record-scratch sound from the 90s sitcoms where the narrator, _Scrubs_ -style, offers some witty commentary.

 _This is about when things went from worse to dismal,_ perhaps. Or maybe, _I bet you're wondering how I ended up a thrashing, screeching, blubbering mess in Fang's arms—stick around to find out after these messages from our sponsors to find out!_

Cue the theme song, and then:

Blinding, bursting, unbelievable pain, infinitely worse than getting kicked or punched or shot, rocketing through my skull. I'd felt this pain before, several times: this was a brain explosion.

 _No no no no no—_

I screamed—I knew that much—and somebody said my name, but then I was gone, gone, gone, down a dark hole of erupting agony, reliving terrible things as if they were real.

At first, they were things that I remembered vividly. Things I could never forget despite years and years of trying. Things that I kept locked in the deepest, darkest closet in the back of my mind, hoping to never think of them, let alone _experience_ them again.

 _Jeb leads me from my dog crate and straps me down on an examination table. A male Whitecoat roughly spreads my knees and pulls on gloves, wielding a speculum. The Whitecoat tightens my restraints until I can barely breathe. I try taking gulps of air; when I can't get enough, I start to hyperventilate. Then I am violated. It is cold and uncomfortable and once I'm back in my crate, away from the Whitecoats, I cry so hard that I throw up. Fang is beside himself, demanding to know what they've done to me, fury shadowing his already dark features. I refuse to speak._

"Max?"

 _Jeb watches Fang and I in the courtyard. I am sobbing hysterically, restrained to the chain link fence as Fang is beaten to a pulp. They are conducting a study on our "humanity," whether or not we have sustained the ability to form meaningful relationships and feel human emotions despite our bird genes. We have. We are seven years old. Afterward, we swap places. The Eraser breaks six of my bones. Fang breaks two of his own trying to twist free of his bindings._

"Max!"

 _Jeb returns Iggy to us. He is weeping and newly blinded. I knock my dog crate to the ground so violently that it cracks open. In the next moment, I am racing down the hallway and trying to strangle the nearest Whitecoat. I earn myself several injections of something that knocks me out for the rest of the day. We are upgraded to wrought-iron cages._

"Is she hurt? Fang. FANG! Is she _hurt?_ "

 _Jeb sits across from me at the kitchen table at the E-house, telling me about these horrors, some that I don't even remember—things that my tortured, overloaded mind has blacked out because they are so terrible. Then I am sprinting into the snowy woods, curling around the trunk of a fir tree, and crying myself hoarse until I fall asleep or pass out, I cannot tell which. Lines of good and evil, right and wrong, black and white have blurred into a murky shade of grey. When I wake up, it is because a panicked Fang is shaking me awake. The afternoon sun has long been replaced by the blackness of night. I am frigid and the tears start back up immediately. Ice has started to frost my eyelashes. Fang scoops me up and tears through the forest. When we get home, he lays me by the fire in the living room, throwing blanket after blanket over my shuddering form, shaking my shoulders and demanding to know what happened. I don't speak for days. And I never tell him._

What came next was what I couldn't possibly have been prepared for: those things that I didn't remember. The things I'd only been told about from Jeb. The unspoken horrors of my childhood.

 _Jeb supervises an experiment that tests my stamina. I am on a treadmill. I am told to run until I collapse. When I falter, I am jolted painfully with an electric shock. Hours pass this way. Eventually, I call out that I can't go any further, I can't do any more, that my lungs are going to explode and spatter all over the walls. The treadmill does not stop. My vision gets hazy, my chest bursts with pain, and I am falling, falling, falling. The shocks come but I am beyond reach._

 _Then, I am opening my eyes. I am on a gurney with Jeb running alongside me, looking at a heart monitor. "Wait! We got her back," he breathes, relief spreading across his face. "Stop compressions, hold the epinephrine—she's back. Oh, thank God, we got her back." I wonder if God has anything to do with it. If he did, I think, he would've killed me, spared me, long ago._

"Max. Open your eyes. Max—look at me. Look at me, dammit—"

 _Jeb hovers over me in a procedure room. The table beneath me is cold. I am naked. With the white surgical lights shining behind him, he looks like an angel. I struggle with this thought as they secure me in place more heavily than usual—I cannot writhe, I cannot move my arms or legs. A Whitecoat brandishes a giant instrument that looks like a saw and I prepare for the prick of a needle for anesthesia. But it does not come._

 _The saw whirs to life and they crack me in half. There is a pain unlike anything else. White-hot. Indescribable. The horrible, slurping sound of suction makes me want to vomit. Halfway through, one of the Whitecoats smiles. "Incredible, to have a subject awake like this. Uncharted territory, medically speaking. And—look at this. When she screams, the air sacs bob ever so slightly. Magnificent." I am eight years old. For weeks afterward, Fang pushes his fingers through his crate to mine, stretching them to try to reach me. He begs me to speak. I don't. I'm afraid that if I open my mouth I will start screaming again and never stop._

"Fang—Fang, we have to do something—why is she screaming like that? Fang?"

 _Jeb sits next to me in one of the labs. His face is somber and serious. He explains that they will be taking me for another examination. The hushed tone of his voice tells me it will be gynecological in nature. This time, he says, it will be different. They will be inseminating me. When I ask what that means, he tells me they will be taking sperm and putting it in me in an attempt to get me pregnant. He says it is for research. He says I won't feel anything. He says I am the most important thing to happen to science since the Human Genome Project. I am beyond scared, beyond violated._

 _Jeb tells me not to be afraid. "It's Fang's sperm," he says. I don't know what that means. He says that, if it is successful, it will be Fang's baby. I am not sure if I feel better or worse knowing this. I am not sure if I feel anything at all. I am eight years old. I still have some of my baby teeth left._

"Put her down—on her side—"

 _Jeb, across from me at the kitchen table in the E-house, telling me I am so, so brave. So strong._

These were not clues or visions—no, they were _memories._ Memories my subconscious had filed far, far away. Memories I didn't _remember._ But memories all the same.

The pain ebbed away slowly. As my senses came back from whatever hellish place I'd gone to, I recognized Fang's smell, near and soft and familiar. My muscles relaxed a fraction. I felt my chest expand with a deep breath, but it was all so, so distant.

One of Fang's hands was brushing my cheek ever so slightly. Far away, what sounded like an injured animal wailing echoed—wait, no; it sounded like _Angel._ My hands clenched into fists but even that was too much energy to expel.

"Max?" Fang whispered. "Can you hear me?"

I barely mustered up a whimper. One of my hands found the hem of his shirt and squeezed it feebly. A warm gush of air spread over my face—Fang was exhaling with what I assumed was relief.

"You're okay," he mumbled, but I think it was more for himself than for me. I felt his forehead press against mine. I still couldn't manage to open my eyes. "I've got you."

Evidently, that was all the permission I needed, because the curtain of unconsciousness fell over me like a dead weight.

* * *

When I woke up, it was dark. A rocky ceiling that could only belong to a cave hovered over me. The rain we'd expected back in West Virginia had apparently caught up with us; outside, thunder and lightning rolled and crashed. Angel and Nudge were curled up on either side of me. I could hear the Gasman's soft snores somewhere behind my head. Iggy was inches from spooning Nudge, his long arm draped over her so it could brush my shoulder. Total was nestled between them.

My heart lurched. There was no question about it—I'd terrified them.

Very carefully, I extracted myself from the pile, checking limbs and organs as I went. My back still hurt like a bitch, but it was remarkably improved from before. My shirt had been swapped for a thicker long sleeve and my dressings felt new. An ace bandage was wrapped tightly around my ribcage, something I immediately recognized as Iggy's go-to method for stabilizing minor rib fractures. One of Fang's thick, dark flannels had been draped over me in my sleep; I pulled it on over my shirt. My head was pounding, but that was pretty status quo.

Physically, I was doing alright. But that was about all I had going for me.

Of course, the last time this infernal explosion of misery in my brain had happened, an unwanted squatter had taken up residence there. I hadn't heard from it in a year.

 _Voice?_ I asked tentatively, but there was nothing.

Little victories, I guess. For now, at least. But why the hell had I _seen_ all of that?

The last time I had brain attacks, I'd been given clues; names of places, photos, directions. The Voice had helped us navigate New York, offered obnoxious advice, filled in blanks for us, bludgeoned me with obscure riddles, harassed me, etc. But this time seemed like nothing more than torture. I couldn't imagine why having firsthand experiences of these terrible things would be beneficial. I felt shaky and tired and incredibly unstable.

I mean, not that shaky and tired and unstable wasn't my baseline. It was just more so than usual.

A small fire burned at the lip of the cave, barely protected from the torrential downpour outside, about two hundred feet from where the flock slept. Fang's shadowed form sat cross-legged next to it with his laptop in his lap. I stepped on a twig on my walk over; he jerked to his feet in a blur of darkness.

"At ease," I croaked.

He didn't move as I advanced. I sat next to where he stood, but he only stared down at me.

"Hey," I said feebly. "Come here often?"

Fang didn't move.

"What?"

"Just making sure you're not going to get shot, or pass out, or start screaming again on me."

"Ha."

His face was taut. "You laugh, but the past twelve hours haven't really given me much faith."

" _Twelve hours?_ " I said incredulously.

He nodded and gestured to the group with his chin. "Terrified them." His eyes indicated that I'd terrified him, too.

I scooched as close to the fire as I could without actually throwing myself in it. The heat felt incredible. "What did I miss?"

He sat back down next to me, close enough that our knees were touching. "It was too dangerous to fly with you like that, so we had to land. Once you passed out and we were confident you weren't going to die on us, we flew another few hundred miles."

I studied my surroundings, checked my internal compass, did some quick guesstimations. "Pennsylvania?"

Fang nodded, closing his laptop. "Right outside of Philadelphia. Started looking into that company, Vector. Haven't been able to find much. Whoever's in charge up there does a really good job of covering their tracks. We'll have to dig up more clues."

I dumped my head into my hands and rubbed my temples. I couldn't take another year of this. Of not knowing what to do, of surprise Voices in my head, of the kids wanting nothing more than a normal life. Of Fang suggesting we find a stupid island.

I noticed Fang had tensed next to me a split second before he spoke; he was watching warily as I rubbed my head.

"What's up?" he asked, trying and failing to conceal the note of urgency in his voice.

This was some serious business. Fang hadn't hovered like this in a _long_ time.

"What the hell _happened?_ "

Fang raised an incredulous eyebrow at me. "You're asking _me?_ "

I deflected. "Was it really that bad?"

Fang looked away, which was as much of an answer as I needed. His jaw was tight, shoulders set, and the veins of his right arm bulged as he prodded the flame. Huge dark circles had formed under his eyes. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him this exhausted.

"I thought you were dying," he said finally. My stomach dropped. "After Ari, and his expiration date… I kept checking, over and over, waiting for it to show up. I was convinced."

I tried to put myself in his shoes. To swap places. It was way too much for me to handle, so I put the kibosh on it instantly.

"Fang," I started, but he kept talking.

"We had no way of knowing what the hell was going on. You weren't talking, just thrashing around and screaming and crying. Iggy had to drag Angel away. She was inconsolable."

Tears filled my eyes and threatened to fall, but I swallowed them down thickly. I looked back at the dogpile that was my flock, wanting nothing more than to scoop Angel up and crush her to me and never let her go. And then rinse, lather, and repeat with the rest of them.

"We were about to take you to a hospital, but then it was over, and I figured it was like before. When the Voice first showed up."

I thought about how he must've felt the last twelve hours. A heavy uneasiness settled over me like smog over a city.

"Well, no Voice this time, at least," I said as mildly as I could manage.

Fang grunted in response. Then the two of us sat next to each other for a long time, both lost in thought.

It took me until Fang stood up to throw another log on the fire to realize that he was waiting me out, like a predator with its prey. He was going to sit here until I talked. And if I didn't talk, he was coming after me.

"Sorry," I said quietly, tracing a circle in the dirt with my finger. "About before."

I'd uttered these exact words a year ago as I bled out on a beach. The look on Fang's face indicated that he hadn't forgotten.

"I've never seen you like that. Or heard you make those sounds." He poked some life into the fire. The coals flashed an angry red-orange, highlighting his profile. The bruise on his right cheek from our spar was turning a sickly shade of green. "What did you see?"

He was determined to get to the bottom of it, I knew. I also knew he wouldn't stop pushing me until he did. The breakdown I'd had was so unlike me and so unlike any other I'd had over my many impressive years of totally losing my shit.

I sucked in the biggest breath I could manage. Something deep in my chest was burning with anxiety. _Here we go._

"There are things that they did to me, back at the School," I began, swallowing the impossibly large lump in my throat, "that I never told you about. Things that I don't really remember. Sometimes bits and pieces, but mostly I just remember being afraid. Not even angry. It's like… it's like I felt too… sad, I guess, or defeated, to feel angry."

Fang's gaze could've cut glass. Slowly, he rose, plucking another log from the pile to toss over the first one he'd grabbed. Apparently, he didn't think the first log had enough life in it to last the entirety of this impending conversation.

When he sat back down, I steeled myself and continued.

"When I turned twelve, Jeb told me about them. The things they did to me. He thought I deserved to know. I don't know how he knew that I didn't remember any of it, I don't know why he was decent enough to tell me. Maybe he thought since he was going to leave us in a few weeks, he owed me something."

Fang, who remembers everything that's ever happened to him, ever, probably since his conception in the womb (or a test tube, since we weren't entirely convinced that anyone was telling us the truth), jerked his head up pierced me with that relentless stare.

"That was the night I found you in the woods."

I heaved out a sigh. "Bingo."

I still hadn't answered his question, so he asked me again with his eyes: _What did you see?_

"I saw some of them," I managed in the tiniest, breathiest voice. "Those memories. And the worst part is that Jeb was there for all of it. Supervising. Instructing. Like they were his idea all along. And then he had the _nerve_ to look hurt when I started screaming, or when I was scared." I scoffed, fighting the twisting in my stomach. "What a bastard."

I was trying to play it off casually, as if I wasn't being absolutely gutted from the inside out by the onslaught of these memories, but my nervous hands betrayed me by playing with the loose thread at the hem of Fang's flannel.

"That seems to still be his M.O.," Fang said carefully, eyeing me in such a way that said _I am not buying your bullshit façade for one second_. "One minute he's chasing after us, trying to kill us, and the next he's telling us he's on our side. A true bastard, through and through," he agreed.

It was insane to think we'd ever trusted him. Because he'd freed us, we'd followed him blindly, loved him as unconditionally as we loved each other. We were young and naïve, eager to have someone to love, to have a parent, to have a caretaker. Clearly, we didn't get the fairy tale ending we'd always dreamt of.

"The things I don't remember were mixed with a lot of stuff I _do_ remember, which are bad enough, but the other ones are…" I struggled to find a word powerful enough but came up empty handed.

"Fucked?" Fang offered quietly after a moment.

This startled a bitter laugh out of me. "Even _that_ is an understatement."

Silently, with only his facial expression, he asked me what I meant. I pulled the neck of my shirt and sports bra down a bit to show the top few inches of the long, jagged scar that split my torso in half. Fang didn't react; he'd seen it a billion times.

For the first twelve years of my life, I had no clue what it was from. I assumed some sort of procedure, but I had no memory of it. Fang told me later that I'd been kept from them until I was fully healed, and I hadn't spoken for weeks afterward.

"You know that scar you have, Max?" Jeb had said. Because I have so many, he specified. "The long one, down the center of your chest?" When I nodded, he'd said, "They did a sternotomy. Do you know what that is?"

Then he proceeded to explain. Said they'd kept me awake for it, described how quickly I'd burnt through the numbing agent they'd given me, recounted how I spent the long hours of a massive thoracic surgery wide awake, screaming and crying, as they studied my lungs and heart.

I hadn't understood the weight of this fully until today, when I'd _experienced_ it. I squelched the urge to vomit.

I recounted the memory to Fang, blinking back tears, and watched his usually so guarded face contort into one of rage. His knuckles were white in the firelight. Blood dripped from the palm that held the stick in it.

I reached forward and wrapped my hand around his wrist. "Quit it," I scolded gently. I forced his fist open and pulled the stick away.

He pulled his hand from mine and wiped it on his jeans. I added _clean and bandage Fang's hand_ to my never-ending to-do list.

Then he did something totally unexpected: he raised his other hand in front of me, extending a long finger to trace the very tip of the scar. Fang's face was more expressive than I've ever seen it: anger, pain, sadness, and a dozen other emotions painted his handsome features. His eyes were apologetic, although none of it was his to apologize for.

He pulled his hand back and started to prod the fire. I had no idea what to make of him lately.

"What else?" he grunted through gritted teeth.

"Mostly things I remember," I said quickly. "Them sedating me the day I went apeshit because they blinded Iggy. Our 'humanity' experiment—when you broke your arm trying to twist free from the fence. Waking up in the snow that day, you nearly throwing me in the fireplace to warm up."

Fang didn't react to my feeble attempt at a joke. Instead, he narrowed his eyes. "What about the other things? The ones that you didnt remember?"

I fixed my gaze on the fire, wondering what things would've been like if I was normal, if I'd grown up like Ella Martinez, if I'd never had wings or even a flock to take care of. It suddenly felt like _way_ too much.

I cleared my throat. "I, uh, guess I…" I thought back to the memory of the treadmill, how my heart had felt like it was bursting and then I'd woken up on a gurney with Jeb hovering over me.

All it took was that: suddenly, I couldn't shut my mouth.

"I guess my heart stopped. I mean—they got me back, obviously. But they had me on the treadmill, doing one of those stamina tests, but I was only six, and I told them I couldn't do it anymore, and then I was having this pain in my chest and the next thing I knew I was opening my eyes as they wheeled me into the medical bay with Jeb telling them to 'stop compressions' and 'hold the epinephrine.'"

I'd known him long enough to know Fang needed to break something. I tried to backtrack a little, make him feel better, but the damage was done.

"Clearly, I survived."

"Why not me?" Fang whispered, shaking his head. "Why didn't they do any of this to me?"

"Maybe they did. Maybe you just… don't remember."

"I remember _everything_ , Max."

I sighed shakily. I couldn't argue with that, but I tried anyway. "I thought I did, too, but then…"

"You must have blackout periods. Lapses in memory," Fang said. "I don't. I remember every single test, every single near-death experience, every single time any one of us was taken from that room."

I opened my mouth to disagree with him, but then I actually tried to think back. And he was right—I could recall, back to a certain age, every time I'd been forced from my cage, but there were certain instances where I wasn't sure what happened immediately afterward.

"I just don't understand," he said quietly. "I'm barely younger than you. The oldest male recombinant. They did a lot of things to me, things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, but nothing like _that._ Why wouldn't they have taken me instead? Why would they have…" he shook his head, white-knuckling the branch again.

I smacked the back of his hand to make him loosen his grip. " _Stop._ And— _hey,_ " I said in as accusatory of a voice as I could manage. "Just because you're a _male_ doesn't mean—"

Fang groaned. "You know that's not what I mean. Jesus, Max—don't get into that with me. I'm just saying—you were their first, the epitome of success. Why would they have gambled with your life like that?"

I fiddled some more with the torn hem of his flannel. "I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe because I was more vocal. More outspoken. Or because I was the first, and everyone was an upgrade after me. Maybe they figured if anything went wrong, I'd be the best one to lose, and at least it would've been in the name of science. Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," Fang said brusquely.

"Well, I'm glad it was me and not them. Or _you_."

Despite the look of supreme unhappiness and disapproval on his face, Fang said nothing.

His knee started to bounce, like it always did when he was immensely stressed. It was hard to look at him. He was so plainly exhibiting emotion in a way I hardly ever saw. His calculating, logical mind couldn't fathom the things I was telling him, just like it could never fathom the circumstances of our lives. It just didn't add up to him, why people would be this way, why it was _us_ it happened to. I had a long-standing theory that this train of thought contributed heavily to Fang's inner darkness.

"You can't try to make sense of it, Fang," I said, resting a hand on his knee. It stilled under my touch. "It's nonsensical. The things they did to _any_ of us. I mean, look at Angel. She was only a baby. We might _never_ know the things they did to that brain of hers. Thank God she can't remember any of it. And don't even get me started on Iggy. Operating on his eyes like that while he was awake..."

"They cut you in _half_ while you were awake," Fang spat.

I didn't really have much to say in response to that.

Fang brushed his hands off on his jeans again, shaking his head violently, as if to clear it.

"There's something else," he said after a few minutes. "Something you're not telling me."

I turned back to the fire, picking idly at my fingernails in lieu of answering. Fang took one of my hands in his, running the calloused pads of his fingers over the lines of my palm. "You can't keep this all to yourself."

This seemed like an awfully hypocritical thing to come out of his mouth. I tugged my hand back. The cold air lapped hungrily at where his warmth had just been.

"I'm _sorry,_ " I challenged, "let's take a step back to reflect on the last time _you_ opened up to _me._ "

"This is different and you know it is," he growled.

"Interesting. I don't seem to think so."

"I keep everything at distance. There isn't much that stays close to me. You do. They do." He gestured to the flock. "That's it. The rest… I can't let it."

"Ah, yes. Fang, the paradigm of health and well-being, giving _me_ advice."

"I'm not saying it's good, you idiot!"

Hi, everyone. Me, here. Your narrator. Let's zoom in on one of Fang's tragic flaws: channeling fear and concern into anger. Again, I refer you to books one and two.

"Listen," he said, this time with a bit more restraint, "I'm not pretending that I'm well-adjusted. The point is, you _feel_ things. It's what makes you a good person. But you put so much pressure on yourself to be perfect, to never make a single mistake, to never show a chink in your armor, that it consumes you."

He took my hand again, slowly this time, and turned my arm over, letting the puckered scars from The Beach Incident flicker in the fire. My cheeks flooded with embarrassment, just like they always did when it came up.

"I'll never forget this day," he said softly. "You scared the crap out of me. But earlier was…" He searched for a word, but it never came.

We were silent for a long while. I considered what he'd said. He was right, obviously. I didn't have to like it, but it wouldn't change the reality. Maybe I wanted to be like Fang—stoic, unflappable, imperturbable.

But I wasn't. Instead, I was overemotional, outspoken, and brash. Loyal and self-sacrificing to a fault. Fang had told me years ago that these things made me a better leader, a better mother. But keeping it all in did nothing but backfire time after time after time.

"There's more. I know there is. So you can either tell me now, or wait until it comes out the next time it all becomes too much. I just hope I'm not too late to the beach next time."

Dread spread like wildfire through me. How could he _do_ that? He knew _exactly_ what to say to make me feel just awful enough to talk. Just like that, I was spilling my guts.

"They tried to breed us," I blurted. Immediately, I cursed, wishing I could reach up and snatch the words back. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

To his credit, and maybe to my own dismay, Fang's expression didn't change.

"Me and you," I clarified.

He blinked without flinching—Fang's way of displaying complete and utter befuddlement. He opened his mouth and then shut it again not once but twice before deciding on, "Somehow, I think I'd remember this."

I shook my head and forced the words out. "Not like that. They… inseminated me. With…"

I couldn't bring myself to say it.

Thankfully, Fang's not a complete moron, so he put two and two together. His eyes widened and flashed with unmitigated misery. "They _what?"_

I suddenly had an acute, overwhelming urge to throw myself in front of a tractor trailer. "Obviously, birds reproduce a lot earlier in life than humans do," I muttered. "Our reproductive anatomy is similar, in some way, to birds'. Or mine is, at least. Don't know about the others. When they tried to take Nudge in for testing, I made them take me again."

A quick sidebar here: for those of you with any knowledge whatsoever about the reproductive systems of birds, _yes,_ all of our external tender bits are still one hundred percent human. It was more of the nitty gritty stuff (e.g. I only have one ovary, don't have a menstrual cycle, that sort of fun, exciting science-y crap) that differed.

Despite my explanation, Fang still looked completely dumbfounded. I wasn't sure if my words were even getting through to him. Under different circumstances, it might've been funny to see him so flustered.

Not today.

"They thought we may be able to reproduce early on. So they tried it. It didn't take. Obviously."

"How old were you?" Fang asked. The surprise melted away and underneath it he looked horrified—too horrified to be angry. I couldn't remember if I'd ever seen him this way before.

I knew he'd ask. I didn't want to answer, but I said as quietly as I could manage, "Eight."

 _"Max,"_ Fang choked out. I'd never, ever, ever, in sixteen years of life, heard him say my name like that. He was absolutely despondent. Powerful waves of some sort of cocktail of rage, pain, and bloodlust rolled off of him and crashed over me.

For the first time, the weight of having a child at eight years old hit me. We weren't positive, as far as reproduction went, what exactly would happen. All signs pointed to "probably not laying eggs," but we couldn't be sure. I'm sure the Whitecoats then, and certainly still now, were desperate to find out. At the very base of my deepest, darkest nightmares, I always worried that if we were to be captured again, at this age, if we'd finally be subjected to that kind of experimentation.

But the fact that they'd even considered it at all—the fact that they'd tried to _impregnate_ a _child_ —well, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but certain things will never lose their shock factor, I guess.

When he spoke, it was a thin whisper, a sad kind of disbelief. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The million reasons I could've given him all flooded my mind at once. _Because it doesn't matter. Because I'm supposed to be strong. Because the past is the past. Because life sucks and then you die._

But instead, my traitorous heart overruled my mind and told the truth, as it had done a million times before and would surely do again.

"Because," I choked out around a sob, hating myself for being so weak, "I never really believed any of it was real until today."

For a second, I thought I could hold it together. I sucked in a deep breath and time stopped as I begged myself not to cry. But when I looked up and saw Fang's face, impossibly soft and sad, I was a goner.

So, for old times' sake, I dissolved into hysterics, and Fang's arms, warm, strong, and _safe_ were around me, threatening to never let go.

* * *

 _A/N: Whoever can tell me where the hell Lustrex went gets a million dollars._


	5. FIVE

_A/N: Welcome! This is where two books of sexual tension starts playing out._

* * *

FIVE

I'll give you one guess as to how that touching scene resolved.

What was that, faithful reader? If you guessed _Max wakes up the next morning to find herself cuddled up to Fang at the lip of the cave and subsequently has an existential crisis,_ then—ding ding ding!—we have a winner.

The first thing I noticed, before I even opened my eyes, was how _warm_ I was. My feet were tucked underneath something plush and snug. My head was pillowed on a firm, toasty surface. A thick, fantastically soft blanket was draped over me. Instead of waking up frigid and clutching for the covers or Nudge or _something_ to defrost me, I rose to consciousness cradled in the heavenly embrace of body heat.

I was notorious for complaining that I was cold—fast metabolism + bird bones + lanky, skeletal frame + baseline temperature of 102°F + an unfortunate hypersensitivity to cold weather that only _I_ seemed to have been programmed with = one perpetually freezing cold Max—so this was an unprecedented discovery. I snuggled backward, closer into whatever it was, ignoring the throbbing in my head and the burning in my back. It was only when I took a deep breath that I realized the circumstances of this unprecedented warmth.

 _Wait a second—_ body heat _?_

The _something plush and snug_ that my feet were tucked under was Fang's thigh. The _firm, toasty surface_ my head was pillowed on was the crook where Fang's shoulder met his arm, snaked underneath me. The _thick, fantastically soft blanket_ was Fang's left wing, draped over us to protect us from the cool November wind. The _body heat_ behind me belonged to _Fang._

Oh, God.

My entire face suddenly felt like it was on fire. My heart thundered away in my chest like a jackhammer. _Okay,_ I told myself. _Fang was hugging you last night, trying to hold you the hell together as you tried to fall apart. Classic. He made you feel safe, so you fell asleep after totally losing your shit. Not unlike you. But now you're waking up and he has his arms and wing around you and you're warm and it's incredible and…_

… _and the entire flock is sleeping less than a hundred yards away, and it's_ Fang _and you're_ you _and you absolutely, totally, completely cannot do this, and…_

… _and, oh, Sweet Jesus, he's spooning you, and—_

"Hey."

I nearly jumped out of my skin when his voice rumbled behind me. Fang pulled his arm out from underneath me and used his other hand to tug on my shoulder, wordlessly asking me to roll over. I took a deep breath and obliged. Then I tried to inconspicuously scoot back several inches.

Fang looked down at me with a bemused look. His face was so uncharacteristically unprotected, as soft and placid as the sunrise behind me.

For the love of God. _As soft and placid as the sunrise behind me?_ Barf. I was officially going soft.

Wait. "Who—"

Fang cut me off, giving me a look like, _We're not idiots, Max._ "I stayed up half the night, then Iggy took over. Like we _planned._ "

Cold fear shot through me. " _Iggy_ saw us like this?"

Fang looked at me blankly. "I know this may come as a bit of a shock. But Iggy's _blind._ "

Insufferable. I kicked him, hard, in the shin. "Iggy has ears like a bat and can tell us apart by our _breathing,_ " I said between clenched teeth.

This was terrible. Iggy would never let us live it down, and then everyone would find out, and then they'd accuse me that Fang was my favorite and I was spending too much time with him, and maybe he _would_ be my favorite and I'd spend too much time with him because—

"I told him I was sleeping _by_ you," Fang was saying, totally derailing my train of thought. "I told him you had a nightmare. He didn't ask questions. Especially not after yesterday."

"Why was _I_ the one who had to have the nightmare?"

Obviously exasperated, Fang ignored me. "You needed to rest. And without the concussion to keep you knocked out, you know you wouldn't have slept well."

"I'm perfectly well rested. And I'm more than capable of sleeping by _myself_ , thanks," I huffed.

I could play angry as much as I wanted, but we both knew he was right. My entire imprisoned life had been spent at Fang's side. If we weren't being experimented on, we were either in the rec yard being forced to fight Erasers or six inches away from each other in our respective cages.

When we first got to the E-house, all of us slept in the living room, close enough to touch, for several months. But as we branched off into separate bedrooms—the boys in one, Angel and Nudge in another, me in the smallest one all by myself—I became the only one who slept alone. As a result, we learned that the absence of Fang's soft, even breathing sent me into a panic: I'd slept less than a foot from it for the entirety of my otherwise desolate mutant life.

This only went on for a week or so before Nudge went through a night terrors phase and spent several nights a week curled into my side, sobbing.

Once Nudge went back to spending nights in her own bed, I started being plagued by violent dreams; things that I couldn't even remember when I woke up. I'd scream loud enough to not only wake the entire house but to jar the bats from their perches outside. I'd thrash and punch and scratch to the point that Jeb couldn't even safely get near me. So instead, it was always Fang who gathered me into his arms and held me until I broke out of the torturous spell and dissolved into sobs.

From then on, he slept on the floor of my room at the E-house, without question, comment, or discussion, every single night that I woke the house up with a nightmare, which, despite improvement over the years, was still at least once every couple of weeks. He was the first responder to each of my dreams. One of his pillows was still on my floor at home (if the house was even still standing after Iggy and Gazzy's "oil-slick Hummer crash").

Fang brushing my hair out of my eyes jarred me back to reality. I must've grimaced, because he frowned. "What are you thinking?"

 _Oh, you know, we're just spooning, and you're acting like it's the most casual thing in the world. And you held me until I fell asleep because you thought I needed rest. And you used your freaking_ wing _as a blanket. And my heart is pounding. And I love it. But I hate that I love it. That's all. Oh, and I love you. Whoops. No biggie._

He retracted his wing, rolled onto his back, and leaned back on his forearms, accidentally brushing my arm with his fingertips as he did. My heart gave a little kick.

It wasn't that this version of Fang was totally foreign. All of us (some more than others) have witnessed him be something more than the stoic masochist he paints himself as. Fang's a good person, and he loves the flock fiercely. It was just that, until recently, he'd kept it largely under wraps.

"What?" he asked quietly. His eyes, piercing and melancholy, met mine. "Your back?"

I shook my head. My back, actually, felt ten times better. I could tell that the wounds had closed superficially, but judging by the soreness, there was still some tissue damage deep in my muscles. My ribs were definitely still broken in places, but breathing didn't make me want to die as much as before.

But none of that mattered. What was bothering me was _him—_ his stupid smile, his stupid warmth, the stupid way he'd wrapped himself around me.

Just as I was starting to get really worked up over this pressing new development in my already abhorrent, star-crossed life, _another_ pressing new development barged on through for me to get worked up over.

 _No, Max. What's bothering you is that you_ like _it._

I'll admit it—I shrieked. Like a little freaking girl.

In an instant I'd jumped to my feet and skittered away from Fang, out of the cave and into the rain. I collided with a tree and grabbed on to its trunk, trying to catch my breath and keep from screaming.

The Voice was back.

This was suddenly the very worst thing to ever happen in the history of the world. I'd forgotten how violating it felt to have someone—or something— _in my head,_ constantly aware of my thoughts, commentating my actions, and speaking in riddles, and the first sign of the Voice brought all of those feelings smack-dab to the forefront of my mind.

"No!" I screamed. I dug my fingernails into the bark, ignoring the pain as it drew blood from my fingertips. My ribs burned, and I was already soaked to the bone from the downpour. " _Leave me alone!"_

 _Hello, Maximum,_ said the Voice.

Fang appeared next to me and started saying something, but over the rush of my pulse in my ears, the roar of the rain, and the echo of the Voice, I couldn't hear him.

 _I'd never leave you alone. I'm your friend. I've missed you._

That head-erupting, put-me-out-of-my-misery feeling was starting to creep back in, but I shoved it back and dug my hands deeper into the bark. This was all happening so, _so_ fast—first the Eraser attack, then the bullets, then Ari, the flashbacks, now _this—_ if I didn't find away to ground myself, I was going to totally unravel at the seams.

 _You left me alone for a year!_ Keep _leaving me alone!_

 _I'm here to help you. To guide you to Vector._

I sank to my knees. Thunder clapped overhead. The flock was nearly on top of me.

 _Well, guess what! I don't need_ help _finding Vector! So_ leave me alone _!_

 _I'm a part of you, Max. You can't ever get rid of me._

I shrieked again. By now, I was on all fours, pounding the muddy ground with my hands. Fang was crouched in front of me, one hand on my shoulder, the other flipping the collar of the flannel over on my neck, probably checking for an expiration date again.

 _Breathe, Max,_ said the Voice. _Stand up and breathe._

Believe me when I tell you: I was furious at the very principle of the Voice. I had no intentions of obeying anything it said, ever again, for as long as I had the misfortune of living. But you bet your ass that when it suggested that I start to oxygenate before I keeled over and died, I was upright and sucking wind faster than you could say _schizophrenia._

"Max—"

"I'm fine," I snapped. Nudge cringed and retracted the arm she'd extended my way. "Just—give me a sec."

 _What do I need to do to get_ rid _of you?_

 _I'm not something that you can get rid of, Max._

 _What about that little chip in my arm?_ I thought. My hand clenched around it reflexively. The scars there were jagged and raised. _That seems like something I could get rid of. What do you think about that?_

 _Always so willing to gamble with your own life._

I punched the tree in front of me and howled exasperatedly, gritting my teeth when blood began to bloom from my knuckles. _Not my life. But maybe the use of my left arm._

 _Not everything is that simple, Max. Some things can't just be cut out and eliminated._

 _Well, you see, that's the difference between you and me. I'm not a_ total freaking moron.

The Voice, obnoxiously, did not answer me.

 _What, did I hurt your feelings?_ I goaded.

Nothing.

I groaned in frustration and forced my eyes open. Five soaking wet, wide-eyed bird kids and one talking Scottie had their eyes locked on me.

"Well," I said, feeling ready to scream, or cry, or break something. I braced my hands on my knees and hunched over, trying not to hurl. "The Voice is back."

* * *

I'll spare you the predictable details. Essentially, there was much surprise, a lot of anger, and a lot of me restraining myself from driving my fist—or my face—through a tree.

Let's fast forward to fifteen minutes later, shall we?

I'll set the scene: back at the cave, Iggy cleaned and bandaged my bloodied knuckles, making me, at this point, at least twenty-five percent mummified, considering the giant gauze patches on my back and the ace wrap around my torso. A lot of hugs were exchanged, largely because the rest of the flock was pleased to find that I was, you know, _not dead_ after the terrifying events of the days previous. I changed out of my filthy, wet clothes, warmed myself up by the fire, and tried to pull myself the hell together. It seemed like a lot of that was going around lately.

Meanwhile, Iggy and Fang were neck-deep in the middle of a heated argument. Iggy, tall, pale, and lanky, thought my chip needed to come out, regardless of whether or not my arm stopped working because of it. The fact that the Voice had made a reappearance at the same time as the Erasers had, Iggy wagered, meant the School (or whoever was in charge nowadays) was tracking us through it. Fang, dark, brooding, and bloodthirsty, felt there wasn't enough data to confidently support this. At least, not enough to potentially sacrifice one of my limbs.

"No," said Fang. Again.

"Isn't this a _discussion?_ "

" _No_."

Iggy was furious. "Last I checked, this wasn't a dictatorship."

"It isn't. Unless somebody's being an _idiot._ In which case—"

Enter: me.

As fun and exciting as this had all been, enough was enough. I stood and shoved myself between the two of them.

"In which case, _I_ decide. Because _I'm_ in charge. And _I_ say it's a discussion." I narrowed my eyes at Fang, daring him to challenge me.

They'd been arguing long enough for us all to recognize it was now more on principle than an actual disagreement. Two percent bird or not, boys will be boys. Fang was only two months older than Iggy, but he was my second-in-command—I sensed that this would forever be something that Iggy resented us for. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was blind and everything to do with the fact that Fang and I had grown up closer than any of the others had.

I mean, Fang is— _Fang_. We'd watched each other be tortured. We'd pushed our hands through our crates to link fingers when one of us couldn't sleep. We'd essentially co-parented the younger kids. He was the only person I could fully let my guard down in front of and was the only other person I one hundred percent _got_ , all the way through.

Iggy, being our age, occasionally was bitter, which I could understand, so when he and Fang argued, I usually let them hash it out a bit, be Big Manly Men about it, whatever. However, at this point, Nudge, Gazzy, Angel, Total and I had watched like spectators at a tennis match for far too long, and it was reaching a point of insanity.

"This falls under the 'somebody being an idiot' clause," Fang said, crossing his arms more tightly around his chest. He was a head taller than me, so he had to look down his nose to glare at me. His face was otherwise unrevealing. "This is a stupid idea."

He turned on his heel to walk away.

I turned to Iggy. "Start over."

"If we can find someone else to do this—maybe a veterinarian who has more expertise or exposure, or a doctor, even—there's a way higher chance that they're able to fix this, no risk at all. Or at least _way_ less."

From behind me came Fang's voice, deep, lethal, and sarcastic. "Great plan, Iggy. Let's grab a phone book, look up the nearest surgeon. 'Yeah, my friend has a tracking chip in her arm. We have no health insurance, identification, or money. Also, we have _wings.'"_

"That's not what I mean, you _asshat,_ " Iggy growled.

"Guys," the Gasman tried interjecting, but Iggy shoved a hand in his face and plunged on.

"If you'd just _listen_ to me for _once_ —"

"This is Max's arm we're talking about," Fang said, throwing his hands in the air. "We shouldn't even be discussing this."

Iggy stepped around me and got so close to Fang he could've kissed him. Iggy's face was redder than I'd ever seen it. I half expected smoke to come out of his ears when he bellowed, "Stop treating me like a kid!"

"Then stop acting like one," Fang said through his teeth. His voice was dangerous and low.

Personally, I was getting agitated at Fang's condescending tone _for_ Iggy, so I wasn't shocked when my blind brother's face grew impossibly redder. This time, when he yelled, the entire forest went silent. " _Your girlfriend's arm_ could be the difference between us living on the run in _starvation_ for the rest of our lives and _peace_!"

This statement boomed loudly against the walls of the cave, throwing Iggy's angry tenor back in our faces over and over. Angel stepped closer to Nudge's side. Gazzy, who'd retreated to lounge against a rock, rose to his feet again, looking unsure. And Fang, who, at one point in our lives, spoke once a week at best, finally shut his running mouth.

I wanted to smash Iggy's teeth into his throat for referring to me as Fang's girlfriend, but now probably wasn't an ideal time, so I filed it away for later.

"Some of us have to make sacrifices," Iggy said brokenly. "Some of us have to have handicaps. I'm sick of always being hunted. Especially since we _know_ how they're tracking us!"

My heart broke at these words. _Some of us have to have handicaps._ It occurred to me that maybe Iggy thought I was refusing to do this because I didn't want to sacrifice my arm, when he'd undergone the biggest sacrifice out of _any_ of us: it was _Iggy_ they'd selected to do the vision-enhancement surgery on. So it was _Iggy_ who had to live in darkness for the rest of his life.

Nudge placed a gentle hand on his arm, looking nervous. "Iggy," she said, voice softer than snowflakes, "we don't know for sure."

"Don't give me that!" he said, jerking out of her reach. Nudge's eyes went wide at the tone of his voice. "It's pretty much spelled out for us!"

I understood the magnitude of what Iggy was asking me to do: to potentially sacrifice one of my limbs for a chance at freedom. It wasn't that I didn't get that. It was more that it was an unrealistic suggestion, not because I was afraid of losing my arm, but because it would, more likely than not, involve revealing our wings.

Over the past year, I'd considered the idea of going back to Arizona to see if Dr. Martinez would try taking it out, but this was nonsensical for many reasons:

1\. It would add at _least_ one week to our trip. We were in Pennsylvania now, so we were only maybe six hours or so from Boston. Arizona and back? We were just under two thousand miles, give or take, from Tucson. That was a twenty-four hour flight without stopping or even slowing down. Factor in sleep, food, and potential disasters along the way—at least three days, then another four to complete the trip to Boston.

2\. Dr. Martinez had already said, with certainty, that she couldn't remove it successfully.

3\. My pipe dream of wishing I'd magically wake up a normal human girl was not quite sentimental enough to change my long-standing belief that it's never safe to visit a stranger twice, especially one that knows about my wings.

I walked up behind Iggy and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "We'll try, Iggy. I want this thing out just as badly as you do. But the chances we find somebody we can trust enough to do this are slim to none."

"That's what he won't let me get to!" Iggy said frustratedly, tossing a hand in Fang's general direction. "We have _Angel."_

Gazzy perked up at this, folding his skinny arms over his chest. "Angel?"

Next to him, Angel looked scared. " _Me?"_

"You convinced that woman to buy you that bear—"

"Celeste—"

"— _Celeste,_ back in New York. You convinced the _President of the United States_ , a diehard republican, to fund a project that the right has been ridiculing for years." He gave Angel a severe, pointed look. "I think you could handle one doctor."

What I wanted to say to him was that she was only eight years old and to put such a massive task on her shoulders was cruel and insensitive of him, and that mind control was completely inappropriate and illegal and against all the things that I stood for as a mother and leader.

In the end, I figured he wouldn't respond favorably to that sort of aggressiveness at this point in time. I filed _that_ away for later, too.

After gathering every single iota of patience in my freakish bird-girl body, what I actually said was: "That might be pushing it, Ig. We don't know how long she can manage it, how powerfully she can do it. It would involve manipulating a _lot_ of people, not just one surgeon. If things went wrong, we could end up totally outed or captured."

"I can do it," Angel said. My heart swelled at her eagerness to help. "I know I can."

"That's nice of you, sweetie, but it's not something that we can risk right now."

"So let's test it out, then," Iggy said stubbornly. "Let's find a group of people, see if she can make them do something."

Now Iggy was swinging his racquet at me. Sadly for Iggy, I was the reigning world champion sixteen years in a row, so he didn't really stand much of a chance.

" _Excuse_ me?" I challenged. "Since when has mind control of the general public _ever_ seemed like something I might even _remotely_ find okay?"

"It doesn't have to be something _bad,_ nimrod!" Iggy retorted. "She can make a bunch of people donate a dollar at the grocery store where those people wave the bells. Or make everyone buy a pack of gum. Something simple."

"It doesn't matter! Plus, she's _eight!_ "

"Max," Angel said, looking determined, "I can—"

"No, Angel. Mind control is a hard stop for me. And we have no idea what it could do to you, exerting yourself like that. It could be dangerous."

Iggy spluttered out a laugh. "As if _we_ weren't constantly in danger as kids."

With my recent flashback-a-palooza, this sliced straight through me. I winced. "That's not the _point,_ Iggy! Just because _we_ went through shit doesn't mean she should! What has gotten _into_ you?"

 _"What's gotten into_ _me?_ " Iggy hacked out a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, shut up and quit being such a bitch, Max. You're not my _mother._ "

Under his breath, I heard Gazzy mutter, " _Oof._ "

Oh, no, he didn't.

I won't lie and say it didn't sting. It did. A lot. Don't get me wrong; growing up, I'd been on the receiving end of various levels of comments like that. Usually because of something menial—like cleaning the bathroom or making their beds. This had so much more weight to it. And no matter how many times I heard it, it would never not gut me.

I took two long strides forward and angled my head upward. Iggy was even taller than Fang was, so I had to stand on my tiptoes to glower at him properly. I did my best to conceal how hurt I was, but with all the emotions flying around lately, I was way too tired to do a good job of it.

In the end, this ugly blowout ended the way they have for as long as I can remember: when the going gets tough, the tough get petty, and Max pulls out her trump card.

"What I say goes. Because in case you forgot, even though I'm not your mother, I'm _still_ in charge."

Match point, Max.

I'll admit—it was a bit harsh. And it _might_ have been a bit of me flexing my Leader Muscle to remind them all that I was the head honcho. I have been known, historically, to bring estrogen to a testosterone fight, solely because us ladies are superior, and because I am the queen bee of this operation.

But honestly, in reality, what he was proposing was a shoddy plan even if we assumed everything was going to go well, and Iggy was being obtuse if he couldn't recognize that. Typically, plans with lots of variables and uncertainties are not my cup of tea.

Iggy shook his head and laughed bitterly. "You are so full of shit."

With that, he opened those beautiful pewter wings of his, all fifteen gorgeous feet of them, and took off into the rainy morning.

There was an indeterminate period of silence as we watched him fly away. Nudge walked up next to me and put a tender hand on my elbow. "You know he doesn't mean it, Max." She was right.

But he was family. And he was upset. And it was my job to keep us together, to protect their sanity, even if it meant compromising my own.

So I did what any bullet-holed, brain-exploding, emotionally labile birdgirl would do:

I snapped my own wings open and followed him.


	6. SIX

_A/N: I get a lot of love for the way that I write Iggy, and I'd like to thank you all for that. He was an immensely under appreciated and underutilized character that I think had such potential and character and relatability. Hopefully you enjoy more of that here._

* * *

SIX

I'd found out at the end of our little adventure with Itex last year that, in addition to developing a warp-drive sort of superspeed, I'd developed an ability to _smell_ the flock from impossibly far distances. Don't get me wrong—all of us have heightened senses, it comes with the spliced gene package, but I was the only one to develop this superpowered nose.

Fang has a sort of _warm_ smell, like cedar and cotton. Iggy's is somewhat… spicy, like cinnamon and gunpowder (can't imagine why). Nudge is all sugar, like a vanilla candle, while Gazzy's is like an expensive men's cologne (ironic). Angel, of course, smells floral, light, and pretty, like a lilac bush.

So now, I searched for Iggy's distinct scent. The rain had stopped falling, leaving everything in the forest cold and soggy, which actually made it easier—the other smells of the woods were muted. I found him in less than five minutes, perched toward the top of a giant yellow poplar tree.

While I'm sure he heard me coming, he didn't move as I swooped down. His cheeks were scarlet and his fists were clenched at his sides. I knew the look, because I'd been on the receiving end of it for the better part of sixteen years: he was furious with me.

I landed next to him gently, biting back a groan as I folded my wings into their ridges. The plus side to this episode of Max Gets Shot was that my wings hadn't actually sustained an injury. The downside was that my back _had_ , making most movement pretty painful. Add in the fractured ribs and I was still totally miserable.

That said, my family always, always, _always_ comes first. I would walk through fire for any of them. So pushing aside pain was a piece of cake when it came to situations like this.

Iggy wouldn't look at me. Beating around the bush wasn't going to get us anywhere, so I dove right into the thick of it.

"This isn't about me or my stupid arm. You _know_ that. You know I'd saw it off myself right now if it would fix all of our problems. You _know_ I'd throw myself in front of a bus if it would guarantee you guys' safety."

Silence.

"This is about Angel. And about all of you. If we try this and she fails, we'll end up in a zoo. Or back in cages. Or some other monumentally crappy situation. And she'll blame herself for the rest of her life."

Iggy didn't budge an inch. I sighed and dumped my head in my hands, rubbing my temples.

"She would have to control every single person in that hospital, from reception, to phlebotomy, to the nurses, to the surgeons, to anesthesia, to who knows who else, and make them completely ignore my wings. And ignore the fact that we have no consenting adults, no social security numbers…"

Again: nothing. So I had to resort to something I hated, hated, _hated_ doing: I had to let down my walls and invite him in.

"When I passed out yesterday. It wasn't just a normal, run-of-the-mill brain explosion. I saw things that I didn't remember happening. _Experienced_ things I didn't remember happening. Really terrible things that they did to me. I don't know how, or why, but that's what happened."

Iggy cocked his ear toward me. "I'm listening," he said hoarsely.

I reached forward for his hand and drew it to my sternum, tracing his long finger over the tip of the thick scar on my chest, right between where my clavicles met in the middle.

"I remember this," he said slowly, feather-light fingertips brushing over the puckered skin. "You didn't talk for weeks. Fang was convinced they'd driven you insane. We had no idea what they did to you."

"Neither did I. Until Iturned twelve and Jeb told me they did a sternotomy on me while I was wide awake."

Iggy's already pale face blanched impossibly further. " _What?"_

I coughed out a jaundiced laugh. "I don't think I ever really believed it. But then, after yesterday…"

"A _sternotomy._ While you were _awake_." He blinked his wide, blind eyes, a hilarious habit he still had from his days of sight. I felt a pang in my chest.

"Don't act so surprised. You make it sound like we _didn't_ grow up at a torturous lab."

"But you had to _relive it?_ "

"In 1080p," I cracked feebly.

Another moment of silence.

"Well, that explains the screaming," Iggy said shakily, running a hand through his hair. "But why would they risk your life like that?"

I sighed. "Because I'm the oldest? The toughest? The School's Class of 2012 Most Likely to Mouth Off and Punch a Whitecoat? They knew how to make more of us, so if something happened to me, there was room to upgrade. I mean, they freaking _cloned_ me, Iggy. Look what they did to Ari. They're achieving new, exciting levels of evil."

Iggy seemed to chew this over. He looked like he wanted to comment, but instead decided on asking, "What else did they do to you?"

I sucked in a shuddering breath. "A lot of things."

Iggy took the hint and didn't prod.

"I hate them just as much as you do, Iggy. Maybe more. I don't know." I looked out at the horizon, studying an eagle as it spiraled down through the drafty atmosphere. "They didn't take my sight. But they took something else. Something that I won't ever get back."

"I don't want you to lose your arm, Max," Iggy said softly. His voice was so tremulous, so unsure, that he didn't even sound like himself. "I'm just… done _running._ "

Iggy swallowed his pride about as often as I did, so this was major, and probably as close to an apology as I was going to get.

I studied his profile. His strawberry-blonde hair had grown out much like Fang's had (another to-do list addition). His long nose was permanently crooked from endless spars with Fang once we'd made it to the E-house because despite his blindness, Iggy had been determined to become the best fighter he could be. He had made Fang promise not to go easy on him. As a result, Iggy was both an excellent nose-setter and an excellent fighter.

Embarrassingly, I seemed to notice all too often how much Fang had grown over the years; how his face had hardened and his bone structure had become more pronounced, how he was no longer a beanpole, how he was broad, sturdy, and strong. But Iggy had sneakily changed maybe even more—he'd shot up to well over six feet, his senses continued to sharpen with each passing day, and while he'd always be taller and skinnier than Fang, he'd filled out considerably. He was our medic, our pyro, our chef, our comedic relief in the darkest times.

Iggy and I were both stubborn, both passionate, both hotheaded and impulsive. In a lot of ways, we were the most like actual siblings among us: we butted heads, argued, and pushed each other's buttons, but when push came to shove, we were fiercely loyal. If blinding me would give Iggy back his sight, give me a pen and show me where to sign.

"I get the feeling that you're either disassociating from reality or actively hallucinating," Iggy said conversationally, waving his hand in front of my eyes. Well, maybe two inches below my eyes, but he was close. "I'm trying to decide if I want to stick around to figure out which it is."

I smacked his leg. "I'll make you a deal. Let's keep moving north. If we're attacked again before we can take down this company, we'll find someone to cut this thing out. Even if we have to go back to Arizona."

Iggy turned his sightless gaze to me. "Really?"

"I'm done running, too. Ever since that day they took Angel, I've wanted this to be _over_. To be _left alone_."

An unholy smile split Iggy's face. I felt a reactionary one spread across mine. "What?"

He shook his head, chuckling. "Nothing. I'm just surprised Fang let you out of his sight long enough to come here. If I didn't have hearing like a bat, I'd think he followed you."

I shoved him, hard. "Jackass."

Iggy laughed again. "Hey! I'm being honest. You scared the crap out of him yesterday. Well, you scared the crap out of all of us, but you know Fang, always all stoic, like—" Iggy deepened his voice to a brooding, growling baritone, "'—the only thing to fear is fear itself,' and plus, you know, he's totally in love with you, and—"

I shoved him again, but he dodged this time. "Let's get out of here," I said grumpily. "Before I kill you."

I jumped from the branch and opened my wings, wincing as I worked the kinks out of them. Iggy surged past me with those giant wings of his, his laugh trailing behind him, swirling in the surge of wind he left in his wake.

* * *

When Iggy and I arrived back at the cave, Angel and Nudge were waiting for us outside.

"Fang's brooding," Angel said knowingly.

I laughed and rustled her curls. "Thanks for the warning. I guessed as much."

"He'll get over it. He always does," Nudge said. She reached a hand forward to take Iggy's. "Come on, let's go pack up our stuff."

I bent down to pick up Angel and hitch her on my hip, which was bordering on hilarious, because she was probably only just over a foot shorter than I was nowadays. She giggled. "I'm getting way too old for this, you know."

I wiggled one of my fingers into her stomach, making her laugh harder. "You? Too old? Never. Don't forget that I was the one who changed your diapers, chickadee."

Angel's squeals echoed through the cave as we walked further in. Even Fang, who was clearly doing his best to wallow, wasn't immune to the sound—he cracked a half-smile as he approached and smoothed her hair down once I'd set her back on the ground.

"Why don't you go finish packing up?" he said.

"If you want me to leave so you can fight with Max, you just have to say so," she said cheerfully. "But sure, Fang." She trotted off toward the bags, hair bouncing as she went.

Fang's eye twitched in embarrassment, but I only noticed because I knew him so well. I simpered at him. "I was told you were brooding. Let's hear it. Do your worst, I can take it."

He hoisted his backpack over one shoulder. "I know better than to argue with you," he said lowly. "You'd just better not run off to pull any hero stunts."

I walked past him to retrieve my own bag from the cave, calling behind me, "Hero? That sounds nothing like me."

We were back in the sky in less than fifteen minutes. My head was throbbing, my wing was burning, but I was flying on my own accord and not feeling like I was going to drop, so at least I had that going for me.

Fang flew maybe ten feet below me. The rest of the flock was scattered around me, all on red alert for me to suddenly sink like a stone, which was both obnoxious and endearing.

But mostly obnoxious.

We'd only been in the air for a half an hour when Nudge soared up next to me with a frown on her face. "Max?"

I may not be a mind reader, but I'd run the show long enough to know what was coming: _I'm hungry._

"I know," I lamented. "Alright. Let's fuel up. Then we're putting some _serious_ time in. I want to be in Boston, like, yesterday."

We found a secluded patch of land and touched down in a meadow. Once we'd folded our wings in tightly and zipped up our windbreakers, we headed into town.

I still had the Maximum Ride card, and it still worked, but I was little leery of it, what with the murderous Erasers and the flashback-inducing Voice and everything. So, to be on the safe side, we settled for good, old-fashioned Dumpster diving.

"You know," Gazzy said, pulling an untarnished bag of "expired" hamburger buns from the depths of the garbage, "I almost _missed_ eating out of a trash can. It's just so… so…"

"Bohemian?" Iggy supplied.

Gazzy slapped him five and put a stack of buns in his hand. "You _get_ me."

"More like _barbarian,_ " uttered Total.

"Ooh!" Nudge squealed, brandishing a half-full two-liter bottle of Coke over her head. "Jackpot!"

"More where that came from," said Fang, holding up two more.

"Stephen's Diner sure is wasteful," Angel said.

"You know what they say. One man's trash…"

We rummaged around a bit more and scored some day-old deli meat and a block of cheddar before fleeing the scene. Back at the meadow, we inhaled our spoils.

"I wish I had, like, a bucket of ranch," said Nudge. "Or mayo. Or mustard, or honey mustard, or _Dijon_ mustard—"

Gazzy wrapped a hand over her mouth.

Fang had cracked open his laptop and was typing furiously in between bites of sandwich. Iggy turned his ear toward the sound and elevated his gaze in a question. "Wait. Did we hire a secretary?"

Fang ignored him.

"You finding anything?" I asked.

"Is she hot?" said Iggy.

Without looking, Fang picked up a pine cone and threw it at him. Iggy dodged and caught it effortlessly.

"Shhhh," I scolded. I crawled across the grass and leaned over Fang's shoulder, scanning the Google search with my eyes.

"I typed in a bunch of different keywords. 'Vector,' 'Itex,' 'School,' 'hybrid,' 'recombinant,' 'genetics,' 'human-avian,' 'Batchelder,' our names, some other science garbage that I picked up at the school." He rattled off a bunch of words that sounded totally made up and full of vowels.

Nudge eyed him in awe. "You _remember_ some of that stuff?"

"He remembers everything," Iggy said dully. "Old news, Nudge."

"The results are creepy but related to research projects, hypothetical studies, and simulations—nothing that looks even remotely familiar. But this photo keeps showing up and I can't figure out why," Fang said with furrowed brows.

On the screen was a scanned copy of a sepia-toned team photo of twelve or so teenagers. The placard in the front said 'Boston College High School Academic Decathlon, 1993,' but there were no names listed and no indicator of why the photo had resulted.

Uh, _hello._

" _Boston_ College," I said breathlessly.

"Yep," said Fang.

"Academic decathlon, too," said Nudge, leaning over Fang's other shoulder. "They had one of those at Anne's school. I almost tried out for it, but—"

"—but then you realized we're all self-educated mutant idiots who'll never fit in?" Iggy said drily. Gazzy snorted on his soda.

Nudge looked mildly offended but had the tact to not comment. "You have to be _really_ smart to make it on that team. One of these people must be involved with Vector now, and that's why this pinged on a search."

"Why isn't it showing what keywords it pinged for?"

"It must be really protected."

Well, that meant we'd need to bring in the big guns. I shot her a look that said, _Please?_ (Nudge has a little bit of a thing for computers. _Je vous renvoie à_ book two.)

A wicked grin split her face in two and those perfectly trimmed eyebrows of hers knitted together. "I thought you'd never ask."

Well, fifteen minutes and six broken tree branches later, a very frustrated Nudge gave up. When I tell you that these top-secret-whacko-nut-scientists keep their shit secret, I mean they keep it _secret._

"I need another piece of definite info," Nude said, rubbing her forehead with her hand. "There's no way I'll crossmatch this data by guessing, it's too generalized. At least Itex had a weird name. I mean, 'vector' is a _noun_."

I felt like saying that I could've told her that ten minutes and four splinters ago, but it didn't seem right for the moment, somehow.

"We'll find a name," I said instead.

"Great!" Gazzy said enthusiastically, as if this was the simplest, easiest answer in the world. Then: "How?"

I didn't even have a lie ready. I'd just opened my mouth to make something up when Angel's timid voice cut through the silence from next to me. "What if you tried looking up other things from the class of '91? See if there are more photos, or a list of names…"

I blinked. I hadn't thought of that. "Uh, that's a great idea, sweetie."

Nudge started hammering away at the keys. At first, it was relentless tapping, but it quickly slowed to mostly the soft clicking of the thumb pad, which indicated that she had abandoned searching and was now exploring dead ends futilely.

"Any other ideas, Angel?" I asked.

She looked embarrassed. "Maybe... Boston College High School alumni? Their class specifically, if we can find it?" She plucked some grass from the lawn next to her and threw it carelessly away from her. "A newspaper article could list a hall or a restaurant for a reunion. We could go there and ask if they knew anyone."

"Mmm," I murmured. It was the only sound I could make without revealing my surprise at Angel's thinking.

We searched feebly for another few minutes. Once I sensed that Nudge was ready to tear her hair out, I figured it was time to move on.

"Alright, guys," I said tiredly, wiping my hands off on my jeans. They were full of holes and blood-stained; I'd have to replace them as soon as we were done, you know, fighting for our freaking lives. "Let's pack away the rest of the food and get going. I want to log some serious miles. The sooner we get to Boston, the sooner this will all be over."

"But what if it _isn't?_ " Gazzy asked with wide eyes. "Every time we blow someplace up, there's always another one that takes its place. And then we blow _that_ one up and then there's _another_ one."

I opened my mouth to repeat what Ari had said to me before he'd died. At the last second, I realized that the flock may still not be partial to the fact that we were following recommendations made by him, so I shut it again.

"I just really think this is it. I feel it."

Next to me, I heard Fang give a little snort. Without looking, I reached over and smacked him.

"If they're not the top dogs, no harm, no foul. At least we're starting to take 'em out one by one."

Angel picked at her roll. Her contemplative demeanor made her look so much older. "Imagine if nobody ever came after us again? If this was really the end?"

A heaviness settled deep in my chest. Somehow, that sentence from Angel lit an even brighter fire within me. No eight-year-old child should have to only dream of a world where nobody hunted her to the ends of the earth.

"I will track every last one of them down. Until there's not a single mad scientist to want us. I don't care if it takes me a hundred years to do it."

Okay. Kind of a loaded promise, but I was going off the cuff, here.

"What if you _can't_ find them?" Gazzy said.

"Not a problem, because they'll find _you._ "

That voice was distinctly not one of the flock's.

I rocketed to my feet, sending lunch meat and bread flying across the overgrown grass of the meadow. Ten feet to my left and just behind me, Fang did the same.

And there they were. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme: birdkids and the beasts.

And by _beasts_ I mean Erasers. _Flying_ Erasers. Only twenty or so of them, but they looked decidedly eviller and more vicious than I remembered.

" _Dammit,_ " I muttered. They'd found us _that_ quickly?

"Hey, Fnick, what was it you were saying about it not being a tracking chip?" Iggy said hotly under his breath.

"Time for retirement!" said one of the smaller Erasers menacingly.

"Retirement? No way. I don't have _nearly_ enough in my 401k," I quipped.

One of the Erasers sneered, flashing a row of sickly, yellow teeth. "No wonder why you're slated for extinction. You're useless and can't follow commands."

"No wonder why nobody will ever love you," I snarled back. "You're an ugly dog boy who'll need dentures by twenty-five."

Iggy snorted.

"We could run," Fang said lowly from behind me.

The biggest Eraser, the one in the front, grinned and flashed his razor-sharp canines. "Can't hide, though!"

"Really?" said Nudge wonderingly. "I get the feeling that we're pretty good at—"

Then, before any of us had time to react, he whipped out a gun.

And shot Nudge.


	7. SEVEN

SEVEN

I'm sure you can imagine how that went over.

The very first thing that crossed my mind was: _I'm going to kill them. I'm going to kill every last one of them with my bare hands._

Nudge jerked to one side with a startled yell as a dark stain blossomed on the right sleeve of her windbreaker. She wrapped her other hand around it, letting loose a second muffled shriek as her knees buckled.

There was going to be hell to pay.

I started running. If any of these dilapidated, rabid dogboys so much as laid a _finger_ on any member of the flock, I'd tear them into so many pieces that there would be nothing but human-lupine confetti to bury.

" _Nudge!_ "

"Move and she dies!" one of the Erasers bellowed in a deep, booming voice. There was a gunshot, but all I heard was the sound of rustling leaves. Since I'm not an idiot, it was clear to me that they'd shot into the sky to trick me. _Nice try,_ I thought, edging myself into the path between her and our attackers.

" _Move and she dies!_ "

I'd just opened my mouth to tell them to kiss my ass when another shot fired out—only this time, I watched it splinter the bark of the tree just to the right of Nudge's kneeling form. Flurries of oak exploded into the air. Nudge let loose a terrified scream that gave way to a startled sob. From behind me, Iggy shouted in panicked warning, " _Max!_ "

Well, that changed things. I swore under my breath and stopped running, thinking of the bullets in the gun Ari had shot me with. Then I turned slowly to face the Erasers.

"We'll never stop searching for you," said the Eraser in the front.

" _Why?_ " I demanded. "Why do you have to do this to us? _Leave us alone!_ "

"Because we're the good guys!"

I had just enough time to recognize that this was exactly what Ari had said to me in the Subway tunnels of New York before a jolt of pain rocketed from one temple to the other and the Voice said, _Think, Max._

 _Not the best time! We're about to get our asses kicked, here!_

"What's she doing?" demanded an Eraser.

 _Not if you're smart. Be on the offensive._

 _With these odds?_ I fired back. _Are you crazy? They all have guns!_

There was a pause, and then the Voice said, _Say uncle._

And then it all made perfect sense. _You couldn't just freaking say so?_

In one swift, strong motion, I beat my wings as powerfully as I could, stirring up dirt and leaves around me. And—get this—it _worked_ : the distraction, thankfully, granted Iggy and the kids a chance to take for the skies.

Because nothing can ever go without a hitch in my life, my wing cramped up as I attempted to get off the ground. By the time I'd worked out the kink, I was doubled over, choking on the small silt tornado I'd created.

A bullet streamed by me. I dodged and tried to peer through the dust. Seconds later, somebody tugged me out of the line of fire as another spurt of gunfire nearly took off my right ear.

"Move!" said Fang. Bullets strafed the air around us as we sprinted through a cluster of evergreens. I snuck a look behind me—half the Erasers were tailing us while the other half fired into the sky—but Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel were already specks, zig-zagging erratically to dodge bullets. Mercifully, nobody seemed to be falling. Nudge had one hand wrapped over her wound, but she was streaking through the fog just as quickly as the rest of them.

"Up and away," Fang said urgently, pointing to a clearer area ahead of us.

I pulled ahead of him and threw myself into the air, spreading my still-tight wings and pumping them powerfully. I immediately poured on the speed and put as much distance between myself and the Erasers as I could. Fang was right behind me.

We slammed the brakes once we reached the flock. I was at Nudge's side instantly, hugging her as well as I could manage while midair. "Are you okay? How badly are you hurt? How much blood have you lost?"

"I'm okay, Max," she said with a pained smile. She looked pale and younger than usual.

Images of Fang bleeding out on the beach flashed relentlessly before my eyes. I set my jaw. "Let me see."

"It'a nothing serious," she went on. "I just need a bandage, I feel fine, really—"

"Let. Me. See," I demanded.

With a frown, Nudge peeled her hand away from the injury. The good news was that the bullet hadn't lodged in her arm: the bad news was that it had scooped out a decent sized hole of flesh and muscle on its way by.

I sucked in a breath so quickly that it whistled. "It looks worse than it is," Nudge said in response, but her face was strained.

My emotions had been completely out of control as of late, so I naturally had to force myself from tearing up at her courage. "You are so, so brave," I said proudly. She smiled shyly. "Let's get that fixed up."

"We can't land now," Fang said quietly from next to me. "Too close to them."

I hated him for it, but he was right. Our head start had bought us a few minutes, but even with the Erasers' dilapidated flying, there was a chance they could catch up to us. Or worse: report off our location to their mother company so they could send more troops.

I bit my lip, considering my options. We heal quick, it's true. But one look at Nudge, at how much blood she'd already lost and the pallor of her face, made me sick to my stomach.

"It's fine," Nudge said when she saw my face. "It already feels better. And it's bleeding less. We can fly for a while; if I start feeling bad I'll—"

"No."

"Max—"

"Not up for discussion. Okay," I said, turning to the group. "I'm going to use my superspeed to get Nudge and I farther away. That way I can patch her up. Stay together and _stay hidden._ Fly in a zig-zag, indirect pattern to throw them off the trail. Meet us—"

Fang edged his way over. "I'll take her."

My mama bear protectiveness flared. I trusted Fang with my life, but the only person I trusted more than him was _me—_ which meant that as long as I was around, I'd never willingly entrust the protection of one of my wounded cubs to someone else. "I can do it."

Nudge looked annoyed. "Guys, really, I—"

"Don't," Fang and I said at the same time. She sighed.

Fang's eyes blazed in the sunlight. "If they're tracking us through your chip, they could show up at any minute. If you're two hundred miles away and alone with Nudge, you don't have great odds."

I hated it (again), but he was right. Again.

"Quit acting like I'm a little kid! I'm telling you I feel fine!" Nudge insisted.

I rolled my eyes. Next to me, Fang let out a quiet sound of frustration. "Is it your turn or mine? I forget."

I studied Nudge. She'd never learned to mask her emotions well, so although she was desperately trying to convince us that she was okay, her face was stuck in a twisted grimace.

This was one of those Max-should-learn-to-accept-help moments.

"If she's not bandaged, bundled up, and tucked in when I get there, so help me God," I said to Fang finally.

Fang nodded and gave me a silent salute.

"And we're changing courses. Heading back south. Go to the old campsite and we'll meet you there."

The Erasers would never expect us to return to an old ambush site. Unfortunately, Fang _also_ would never expect us to return to an old ambush site, so his eyes narrowed a sliver.

"The old campsite?"

"Just temporarily. Until we can rendezvous and go from there."

"South?" Fang asked. "What's south?"

"Arizona," I said, avoiding his gaze. "The chip is coming out."

As you can imagine, the sheer _mention_ of the chip sent Fang into a tizzy. You would've thought I'd said I was sacrificing myself to Hades of the Underworld.

"You're joking," Fang said lowly. His face was unreadable, but I knew he was furious.

"They're going to keep hunting us until it's gone, Fang. And they have _guns._ One of us isn't going to be so lucky next time," I said. "The only person I trust enough to try is Dr. Martinez. She knew about my wings and didn't tell anyone."

"Are you out of your mind?" he said severely. "Don't be stupid."

"This isn't negotiable. Let's go."

But Fang didn't back off. "Who's to say she hasn't run her mouth since?"

"Nobody," I said, shrugging. "We can't know for sure. But I'm done putting us all in danger, and bad odds are better than no odds. Now _let's go._ "

Fang was absolutely fuming but knew better than to keep arguing. "This conversation isn't over," he hissed. "Nudge, grab my foot." Then, to me: "See you in West Virginia."

* * *

It was a long but uneventful trip. Although the Gasman serenaded us with what seemed like one long, run-on version of "Take Me Home, Country Roads," no Erasers showed up to harass us, so I couldn't really complain.

I spent the flight thinking. Most things in my life weren't making much any sense to me anymore, not that they ever really had, honestly. For one, if I'd had this chip for my entire life like Dr. Martinez suggested, then why hadn't they found us at the E-house sooner? Why had we had periods of peace, uninterrupted by attacks and evil scientists? Had we ever been truly free, or had it just been an orchestrated game, a real-life _Truman Show_?

Secondly, why was this the first time we were hearing of this company Vector? Why wasn't it popping up on our searches? Why did the Voice want to help guide me there?

Why was the Voice _back?_

I was still warring with these ideas when we landed at our old campsite. Only three days had passed, but it still looked drastically different than how we'd left it: the tents and tarps were tattered, probably from the storm that had swept through, and the other meager supplies we'd left behind had been scavenged or ruined by wild animals. A stray can of corn had been bitten open by something with giant incisors—I was hopeful we wouldn't meet whatever was responsible for _that._

It quickly became evident that there was no sign of Fang or Nudge, not a single indicator that they'd ever been here.

 _I'll take "Things That Scare the Living Daylights out of Max" for a thousand, Alex._

"Do you hear them?" I asked Iggy over the dull roar of the Gasman's singing.

Iggy shook his head. "And judging by the fact that you're even asking me that, I'd assume you can't see them?"

"Not even a sneakerprint."

"'… _to the plaaaaaace I belooooooong! West Virginiaaaaaa, mountain—'"_

"Gazzy, shut up!" Iggy hissed.

The Gasman stopped singing, peering around urgently. "What? There's nobody here."

Iggy's voice was lined with fear. "Fantastic observation. So _where_ _are_ _they_?"

" _Nudge_?" I yelled, heart hammering in my chest. Had the Erasers known and come for them? Were they back in captivity? If they were, were they at the School, or at Vector? " _Fang_?"

" _Nudge_!" Iggy bellowed through cupped hands.

"Over here!" came Nudge's voice.

My legs almost gave out with relief. "Don't move, okay, sweetie? We'll come to you."

The four of us jogged in the direction of her voice. When we broke through the tree line, we saw an exhausted Nudge leaning against the trunk of a tree by the lake's edge. Fang's thick jacket was draped over her. Her arm was heavily bandaged but still attached and circulating blood, which was more than enough for me.

I was through the clearing and crushing her to my chest in an instant. "I'm okay, Max," she breathed into my hair. I filled myself with her sweet smell.

I had maybe ten seconds of blissful relief before realizing we were still missing someone.

A quick sweep of the trees confirmed it. My heart started galloping again. "Where's Fang?" I asked urgently, holding Nudge's shoulders.

"What do you mean? I'm right here."

I must've jumped two feet in the air. We turned to see Fang standing at the far end of the shoreline with his arms crossed. My jaw dropped. It takes a lot to full-out shock me these days, but Fang _appearing out of thin air_ seemed to be enough.

"I'm going to be sick," muttered Total, laying down next to Nudge and resting his chin on her thigh.

"Why is everyone looking at me like I just grew a third arm?" Fang asked evenly.

I looked at the flock, all of whom were gawking just as comically as I was. Well, not Iggy. I couldn't decide if he looked more confused or annoyed.

"You were _not_ there five seconds ago," said Angel.

"That was _sick,_ " Gazzy breathed with wide eyes.

Iggy sighed. "What cool thing have I missed this time?"

Nudge blinked. "Fang just teleported."

"I _what_?"

Iggy's face changed to one of total shock. "Wait—Fang _what_?"

"Good one, Fang," I said, glaring. "What, did you take up magic lessons in the last two hours?"

Fang's expression was annoyed, if otherwise unreadable. "What the hell are you talking about? I've been here the whole time."

I stalked over to him and poked his shoulder. He scowled at me. I scowled back. "If this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing."

"You looked right at me when you got here!"

"What the _hell is going on here?_ " Iggy interjected.

This exchange went on for a minute or so before Nudge separated us and made Fang stand perfectly still for several minutes. When we could still see him, Gazzy looked unsure. "Maybe we just didn't notice him?"

"I know what I saw," I said firmly. "Or— _didn't_ see. Nudge, tell me exactly what happened."

"Fang cleaned my arm. Then we washed up in the lake. Fang made a fire and we split a can of green beans, then we talked some. Then he walked over there and looked out at the water. I closed my eyes, 'cause I was tired. Next thing I knew you were calling my name." She blinked. "I thought he just went to find more firewood or something."

"This is so lame," Iggy muttered.

I ignored him and looked at Fang harshly. "You didn't do _anything?_ "

"I was just standing here," Fang said. For the tenth time. His eyes indicated that I wasn't the only one keeping count.

Well, _too_ _bad_. There was no way I was just going to drop this.

"Do _exactly_ what you were doing. Breathe the _exact_ same way, think the _exact_ same thoughts."

He rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement. I backed away slowly, refusing to blink.

And, after several seconds, all of us watched as he dissolved before our eyes.

Like, _surprise._

I guess it sounds cheesy, but that's the only way to explain it: he cleared like a cloud of mist, slowly fading away to reveal the horizon behind him. It was the most unnatural, bizarre thing I've ever seen in my lifetime, and it scared the living daylights out of me.

Behind me, I heard Total yak. None of us moved. Nudge didn't even utter a sound of disgust.

Fang moved fractionally and snapped back into view all at once with the most flabbergasted expression I've ever seen on his face as he stared down at his hands.

"Huh," was all he said.

He'd never said anything, but I'd always suspected that Fang felt left out, having not developed a skill. I mean, I gave him a blood transfusion the day Ari almost killed him, and since our blood has DNA in it, he inherited my superspeed, but he'd never had a skill of his own. Angel's had revealed itself immediately. Same with the Gasman. Iggy's senses were certainly not just your run-of-the-mill response to losing his sight, and Nudge's connection with the world (and technology) around her was completely superhuman.

So that had left me and then, over the past year, just Fang. I'd started thinking that maybe his overall demeanor was sort of genetically enhanced. Well, didn't that theory go right out the window!

"So I'm assuming he disappeared just then," Iggy said flatly.

"Oh, _totally_!" The Gasman started laughing and reached his hand out to high-five Iggy, who now had half a grin on his face despite his blindness. In the next second, I was standing next to Fang. I patted his shoulders and arms, making sure he was solid, checking for injuries.

For some reason, a part of me could not cope with the fact that he had just _disappeared_.

What if he never _reappeared?_

I grabbed his chin in my right hand and forced him to look at me. The dopey grin flashed to a frown for half a second, but he didn't jerk away.

"Max," he said. His laugh was so carefree that I forgot to think for a second. I think I forgot to breathe, too. "I'm fine."

"That's not _possible_ ," I whispered.

"Uh, hello?" Iggy said from behind me, clearing his throat. "Angel can _read minds_."

I gestured wildly with my arms for several seconds before I could form words. "He just made himself _completely invisible_!"

"The stuff they did to our genes, to our anatomy, to our _DNA,_ is so beyond what we're even able to understand," Fang said. I realized I still had his face in my hand and I let go immediately, crossing my arms over my chest. "They're able to do things more advanced than modern science could even imagine."

"Whatever," I grumbled.

Fang spent the rest of the night trying out this new talent of his. My heart still kicked into double time when he disappeared, but luckily, he couldn't talk or even move much without snapping back into vision, so it was always short lived.

"I bet if you practice, you could walk around like that," said Nudge.

The Gasman's eyes had been wide with awe for hours. "Or even _fly!_ "

Fang's smile was just as radiant, just as warm, as it had been hours ago; something like an Indian summer in this dark, depressing autumn of ours. It was hard to feel anything but happy when Fang was grinning like that.

He chuckled and ruffled Gazzy's hair. "Maybe, Gaz."

We relocated to another deserted forest just over the Virginian border, mostly because the thought of sleeping in an area they'd found us in once before was threatening to give me an ulcer. By the time darkness fell, we were all exhausted. Fang looked like he was running on empty—he hadn't said anything, but flexing his newfound skill clearly sucked a lot of energy out of him.

I was on first watch and counted, one by one, as my family fell asleep. It always goes the same way: the Gasman is first; he's the deepest, hardest sleeper out of everyone. Angel is next, as if she waits for her brother to sleep before she will. Nudge is always third. Then, depending on our environment, it will be Fang or Iggy—somewhere relatively quiet and safe is always easier for Iggy, whereas Fang is on high alert for intruders, attackers, sounds. But somewhere in the forest, where the rest of us feel protected by the white noise around us, Iggy can be stuck up for hours, twitching with every chirp of the grasshoppers.

As valiant as I would've liked to have been by taking the whole night's watch, I knew it was an asinine thought. We were going to be putting in a _lot_ of flight time over the next couple of weeks, and we all needed as much sleep as we could get. Part of me was toying with the idea of adding Nudge to Fang, Iggy and I's rotation—she was almost as old as the three of us were when all of this started—but she would always be a kid in my eyes, and in the end I just couldn't bring myself to deprive her of the little sleep she was already getting.

The hours went by slowly, as they always do. Around midnight, I shook Fang gently. He woke up, as he always did, in a way that made me wonder if he'd even been asleep in the first place. Then he blinked a few times and stretched his neck, so I knew he'd been in about as deep a sleep as he's capable of.

"It's been quiet," I said. "Some kind of animal to the west. Small, maybe a raccoon. An owl a few miles to the northeast. Otherwise, nothing."

Fang nodded. I picked my way through the camp over to Nudge and curled myself protectively around her. Once I found a relatively comfortable position, I honed in on Fang's soft breathing, praying I wouldn't wake up screaming.

Then I remembered something that had been stuck in my head all day.

"Fang?" I called lowly.

Fang looked up from where he'd opened his computer and cocked an eyebrow.

"What did you do differently? That made you turn invisible?"

Fang stared at me for a long, silent moment. I expected him to shrug and look away, and since I was too exhausted to beat it out of him, it would've been one of those things we never talked about.

Instead, his eyes flashed with something—pain, maybe. Or weariness. "I wished that we could all just disappear," he said, and then he turned back to his computer, dismissing me.

* * *

 _I am running down a long hallway, a pitch black, winding maze. Although my eyes have adapted to the absence of light, I still feel blind and lost. I've been running for what feels like hours. There are sounds behind me, getting louder, closer, but each time I turn, there is nothing there._

 _I reach a dead end. Whatever is following me is close. Then I hear it—the hissing sound, the slithering. My heart seems to stop. What now? My wings are bound. I can either cower against the wall, or I can fight._

 _I always pick fight._

 _I square off my shoulders and plant my feet. It emerges from the shadows, all twenty-five lethal feet of it. Its eyes are slits in its face, its tongue tastes the air between us._

 _It knows I am here._

 _The snake coils itself, as if to strike, and I weigh my options: I can try the element of surprise, see if I can sneak by it, or I can wait for_ it _to attack and then make my next move based off of that—_

 _I am contemplating all of this when the snake darts forward, faster than it takes for me to blink. I curse and thrash, but it has me. Its scaly skin is rough and cold against my own and I shriek._

 _Then Fang is there, far off, running toward me, fists curled and ready to fight. I scream his name—thank God he's here, he'll save me, he always saves me—_

 _But just as he starts to close the last several feet he starts to dissolve out of thin air._

 _I scream and scream his name but he's gone, somewhere in a universe of atoms and molecules._

 _The snake wraps itself around me, just tight enough that I cannot break free. Its tongue flicks at my face as it hisses. My arms try to break its hold, but it is futile; my breathing becomes shallow and rapid, and the beast squeezes me a bit more tightly, enough now to force air from my lungs—minutes pass and the panic pumps through my blood like an infection and I am certain there is nothing worse than this, and then I am drifting somewhere far away._

I woke up screaming at dawn.

When I opened my eyes, Iggy was the one hovering over me, blind eyes crinkled at the corners with concern as he shook me awake. "Dream, dream, dream, dream," he repeated over and over. "Not real. _Max._ Not real."

It took a second for my mind to catch up and realize that this was _Iggy_ and _not_ a suped-up boa constrictor, but once it did, I skittered back a few feet on all fours. Then I lay on my back in the leaves, gasping at the sky above me. My lungs felt close to bursting, but I couldn't get enough air. The sky above me was an angry shade of red-orange. _Red sky at morning..._

"Sorry, Iggy," I wheezed. "Give me a second."

Iggy sat back on his heels and raked a hand through his hair, making spiky clumps of pale orange stick up on his head. "Jesus, Max. We need to get you some Ambien, or some therapy, or _something_ ," he said in a half-joking, half-somber voice.

Fang was on my other side, looking tired but alert and intense. One side of his face had dirt and a maple leaf stuck to it. He shook some of the tiredness away and the leaf drifted to the ground in front of him. "The snake?"

I may have mentioned in passing that my biggest fear is snakes. If you thought this was because of some preconceived notion that women are afraid of reptiles, thanks for playing, you chauvinistic troglodyte, but it's _actually_ because of a genetically-enhanced boa constrictor the School created solely to program me with debilitating claustrophobia and fear. The feeling of having the life squeezed out of you for five agonizingly long minutes while helplessly unable to do anything about it could do that to a girl.

Fang was well-versed in my adventures with the snake. It was not something we discussed.

I forced out a huge huff of breath, swallowing back the fear and trying to wipe my mind clean. "Yeah. Just the snake."

Fang gave me a long, level look like, _Just the snake, or are you bullshitting me?_

"Just the snake," I repeated.

I was absolutely crawling out of my skin, itching to get into the air and on the move. Whenever I had this dream, the only way I could shake it off was by _moving._

Fang, who knew this just as well as I did, held my gaze for a moment more before nodding and turning to the younger kids. At this point, they had to be pretty embarrassed of their leader. If I kept getting my ass kicked by life, how on earth was I going to protect them?

"Pack it up," Fang said in that deep, quiet voice of his. "Early start this morning."

Nobody complained.

We washed up, said one last goodbye to our campsite, and then got in the air.

Fang hung behind the group, gesturing for me to follow him. _Here we go,_ I thought. _Time to get reamed out over this trip to Arizona._

I sighed and braked a bit until he caught up with me.

He patiently waited for me to crack. To my dismay, it didn't take much—maybe a minute passed before I sighed in aggravation. "It's gotta come out, okay?"

Fang said nothing.

"Iggy has a point. And a _veterinarian_ told me it looked like a tracking chip that they put in _dogs._ I mean, how could I have been so stupid? How have we put this off this long? _And,_ " I said, feeling myself flush with that all-too-familiar anxiety, "on the off-chance that it's totally unrelated to all of this, which—hello—seems incredibly unlikely, I still don't want it. _And,_ if I have to live the rest of my life with only three functioning limbs because of it, then so be it."

Again, Fang said nothing. His face was rigid, and I knew he was debating whether or not he wanted to counter my arguments.

Well, wouldn't you know, but _destiny_ interfered right then. My head started to throb, not in a normal-person-headache kind of way, but not quite in a Max-goes-splat kind of way either. A bolt of pain split through my forehead and I slowed up my flying and made a choking sound, holding a hand out to Fang to catch his attention.

He angled one wing to swoop to my side and just below me, looking ready to dive at the drop of a hat. Or, you know, the drop of a _me_. "Your head?"

Then the Voice was scolding me. _You're being foolish, Max._

Hot jolts of electricity shot through my skull. It was uncomfortable, but not enough to ground me. "Hang on."

 _It's been so long since you last degraded me,_ I thought snidely at the Voice. _Oh, the nostalgia._

 _You know better than to return to a place you've already been. Dr. Martinez can't be trusted. Nobody but the flock can be trusted._

I frowned angrily at that.

"Do we need to land?" Fang said tersely.

"Shhh."

 _Under that principle, I shouldn't be trusting_ you. _So if you'd keep quiet, it'd be much appreciated. Thanks in advance._

 _I would never do anything to hurt you,_ said the Voice. _Remember? I'm part_ _of you._

 _Yeah. Like a tumor. Or gangrenous flesh. Or a parasite._

Only when Fang said my name did I look up and realize that we'd fallen back from the group even more; the younger kids were starting to notice. I saw Angel tug on Iggy's shoe.

I sucked in a deep breath and picked up the speed, leaving Fang hovering behind me. "I'm fine. Let's just go."

Fang reappeared next to me. His face was impassive. "What's it saying?"

"Same eerie, nonspecific shit, different eerie, nonspecific day."

Historically, the times when I have refrained from letting Fang in on important details, I have regretted it. But this wasn't an important detail. We still had no idea if the Voice was good or evil. Plus, I just somehow _knew_ Dr. Martinez wouldn't rat us out—she'd let me stay in her home and sleep in the same room as her _daughter._ She'd also told off some bad guys (possibly Erasers? Head on back to book one for the exciting details) for me at her office. If she was evil, she had a really interesting way of showing it.

Fang's unwillingness and/or inability to trust people had saved our butts time after time. But this time was different.

 _Max, you cannot do this._

 _I'm shocked you feel that way. Truly._ _Unfortunately, I don't feel_ too _inclined to follow the commands of a_ voice inside my head _that won't identify itself and causes me pain and suffering every time I hear from it._

 _Have I ever misled you?_

 _I'm not sure who's good and who's evil anymore. So I'm just going to assume that everyone's evil. Including you._

 _You're making a grave mistake._

 _I think I'll be just fine._

"Everything okay back there, lovebirds?" Iggy crowed from ahead of us.

"Shove it," I called.

I could feel Fang's eyes on me. "Sure you're not going to drop out of the sky on me?"

"Never sure," I said honestly. "But I feel fine. C'mon."

* * *

 _A/N: I apologize for leaving you off with a "James Patterson cliffhanger" last chapter. I call it this because it's so typical of James Patterson: making a dramatic, possibly story-altering statement and then ending the 2-page chapter, only to reveal that nothing at all comes of it at the start of the next 2-page chapter._

 _Fang's ability—one of James Patterson's only intelligent decisions in the later books of the series. It was the only logical thing for him, and I've stolen it for my own use here._


	8. EIGHT

_A/N: To **Amerilo** (and, I'm sure, to everyone reading this story) **:** hopefully you get what you're looking for this chapter :)_

* * *

EIGHT

By some miracle, our trip to Arizona was—get this— _smooth._ We stopped twice to rest and eat, but none of us crash-landed and nobody tried to kill us, so it was a major, _major_ win for Team Flock. Two days after leaving West Virginia, we were slowly descending over a town just west of Phoenix.

"I recognize this place," Nudge called from next to me, gesturing down.

"How?" asked Gazzy. He looked exhausted, but neither he nor his sister had complained even once. I was so proud. "It's all just, like, sand and cactuses."

"Cacti," I corrected. "And she recognizes it because this is where those punks came after Ella."

"So what we need to find now is where 'those punks' came after _you?"_ cracked Iggy.

" _No,_ " I said. "What we need to find _now_ is where I ended up after wandering around in the rain with a gunshot wound for several hours. Which would be Ella's house. Which would be…" I peered down and eyed a home with a salmon-colored roof and a small garden in the front yard. _Bingo_. "Right here. Going down!"

We landed a few hundred yards from Ella's front porch. The sparse woods didn't provide much cover, but it was enough.

"Wait here," I said firmly. "When I give the signal, you can head over."

"I'll come with you," said Fang.

I gave him my Leader Glare. "Wait here." He offered me an exaggerated eye-roll but didn't move.

The house was exactly as I remembered it. Adirondack chairs on the front deck, wind chime hanging from a pole next to the door, hand-painted mailbox that said "The Martinezes." I almost face planted from launching myself up the stairs.

When I got to the door, though, I couldn't bring myself to knock. My heart was racing and my palms were clammy. What if they _did_ turn out to be bad guys? What if this was, as Jeb always said, 'another test?' It seemed like everything was a major let down lately—I wasn't sure how well I could handle another one.

In the end, I didn't even have to knock—the door swung open and there was Ella, holding Magnolia's leash.

She stared at me dumbly for a second before her eyes lit up with recognition. " _Max?_ " she breathed. In the next instant, she was crushing me to her while Magnolia barked and ran in circles at our feet.

"Hi," was all I managed. I couldn't remember the last time somebody had been so happy to see me. My mouth was dry, and I felt shaky and unhinged.

Ella finally let me go and held me at an arm's length, a wide grin plastered on her suntanned face. She definitely looked more mature than when I'd first met her, but she still couldn't be much taller than five feet. "Are you hurt?"

I laughed. "No. I mean—yes, but that's not why I'm here. What, I'm not allowed to visit unless I'm bleeding out?" I teased.

"Ella?" called a voice from inside the house. "Who's here?"

"Come see for yourself!"

Dr. Martinez came down the stairs and stopped in front of me, looking totally dumbfounded. Then we were hugging too, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "Max," she whispered in my ear. "You came back."

I couldn't even guess how long we stood there like that. Millenia, maybe. Eventually, we separated, and I wiped my misty eyes with the back of my hand. "I, uh…"

I'd intended on saying _I need a favor_ but all at once realized how terrible that sounded.

 _Hi, we've met once before. Now I'm back and it's because I need help again. And then I'm going to leave without giving you anything in return. Also, murderous man-wolves are after us. Great. Thanks._

Dr. Martinez smiled knowingly. It was a Mom smile, and at once I knew she understood. "You saved my daughter's life, Max," she said quietly, placing a hand on Ella's shoulder. "I haven't forgotten. So anything I can ever do for you…"

I nodded and looked at my boots. "I brought my family."

"That's perfect," said Dr. Martinez, eyes twinkling. "Because I just put some cookies in the oven."

The flock was really, really, _really_ hesitant to meet the Martinezes. Like, _really_ hesitant. And as much as I wanted them to relax, I couldn't help but feel proud.

God, they just grow up so fast.

Fang, dark and lethal, emerged from the shadows first. He was a foot taller than both Ella and her mother, and their intimidation was unmistakable as he approached. Fang stared at them silently with narrowed eyes and crossed arms, a demeanor about fifty times harsher than could ever be necessary toward two five-foot-nothing, barely-one-hundred-pound _human_ _women_.

"It's okay, Fang," Angel said quietly, peeking out from behind him. "They're good guys. You're really scaring them. And don't worry, Dr. Martinez," she said, cocking her head and smiling at the veterinarian, "he's not 'one of those angry, emo punks.' He just likes to wear black and needs a haircut."

Next to me, Fang stiffened. I laughed, both at his reaction and Dr. Martinez's face, which had blanched substantially. She cleared her throat and smiled apologetically.

"This is Fang. And this," I said, pulling Angel closer to me, "is Angel. She's… special."

Dr. Martinez didn't run screaming, which earned her major brownie points. "Hi, Fang," she said, holding out her hand to shake. To my complete and utter mortification, Fang didn't take it. When she then reached her hand out to Angel and started chatting, I kicked him.

"Play nice," I hissed under my breath. "She's helping us." He grunted in response.

Gazzy and Iggy revealed themselves next, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Angel had abandoned me to meet Magnolia with Total, so I pulled the Gasman to my side and ruffled his hair. "This is Gazzy, and that's—"

"Iggy. I'm the token redhead, lanky albino, and blind guy, all rolled into one _irresistible_ package."

If Fang had a foot on the Martinezes, Iggy had at least fourteen inches. Ella stared up at him and blinked. Then, when she realized what he'd said, she laughed. "Hi, Iggy," she replied without missing a beat. "I'm the token Mexican girl." Then, in a stage whisper: "I'm sticking my hand out to shake."

Iggy blinked dumbly, too, and then chuckled, taking her small hand in his. "A pleasure," he said with a little bow. And then, _get this:_ he _kissed her hand._

My jaw was effectively on the ground. Was Iggy… _flirting?_ Some sort of startled half-laughing, half-choking sound sputtered out of me. Fang dug his elbow into my ribcage and murmured sarcastically, "Play nice."

Nudge slinked out from behind us, looking more timid than I'd ever seen her. I had expected her to be the first one to greet them, but she was some kind of starstruck as she stared at this normal girl with her normal mom and their normal house and normal dog.

"It's okay, Nudge," I said gently.

Her beautiful brown eyes were huge. She stood next to me, close to my side, but couldn't raise her gaze.

Dr. Martinez, of course, could read her body language like a book. Just like a mom. "Nudge," she said warmly, holding out her hand. "I'm so happy to meet you."

Nudge looked to me and asked for permission with her eyes. I gave her a half nod. She took a step forward and, trembling, shook Dr. Martinez's hand.

"You know," Dr. Martinez said quietly, to only Nudge, "I'm kind of more of a hugger."

For the first time in as long as I could remember, all of us were truly vulnerable. Here were two people we could kill with our bare hands instantly, and yet there was still a component of being exposed that we weren't well accustomed to.

"Everyone is welcome inside," said Dr. Martinez once she'd detached herself from Nudge. "Of course, if you're more comfortable outside, that's okay too," she added hurriedly. "But I've got a living room, beds, showers…"

Angel gasped. "Oh, Max, can we _shower?_ "

 _We asked one hundred people: what's the most pathetic thing you've ever heard an eight-year-old say? Survey says…_

Obviously, how pitiful this was didn't slide by unnoticed by Dr. Martinez. She corrected her look of surprise quickly and said, "And it's a _hot_ shower."

"I have clothes you can have, too!" said Ella.

"Anyone hungry?" added Dr. Martinez.

Well, I bet you can guess what the answer to that one was.

* * *

Once we'd stepped inside, Dr. Martinez had put another batch of cookies in the oven and pulled out every deli meat, frozen food, and leftover in her fridge.

"No," I'd said firmly, ignoring the glassed-over gazes of my flock. "Absolutely not. We are _not_ eating all of your food."

"That's too bad," Dr. Martinez had said regretfully with a sarcastic shrug. "Guess it'll have to sit out here and go to waste."

"You don't understand. We need three thousand calories a day _minimum._ "

"Well, thank God there's so much of it, then."

"Max. _Tacos,_ " Gazzy said with the widest eyes I'd ever seen on him.

Then she had stared at me, challenging me. In the end, I was too tired to argue, so I had gestured vaguely to my flock and said, "Fine. Go ahead, guys. And— _manners_!"

Now it was something like a party, the way all of us were chatting and stuffing our faces. Fang and I were steadily working our way through a small mountain of chocolate chip cookies.

"This is the best thing I've ever eaten," he said lowly. His eyes were closed and his jaw relaxed, as close to unbridled bliss as he gets.

I grinned and took a bite of what must've been my ninth cookie. "What, even better than my homemade fire-roasted rotisserie pigeon?"

A corner of his mouth quirked up, but he didn't open his eyes. "You're right. But this is a close second."

Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, Iggy was expertly separating out each ingredient with those screwy senses of his.

"I taste almonds," he said with a contemplative frown, chewing the cookie slowly. "And salt."

" _Salt?_ It's a _cookie_ , Iggy."

"Actually, he's right, Max," Dr. Martinez said with a grin. "Almost all baked goods have a tiny bit of salt in them. It contributes to overall flavor."

Ella nodded and then beamed at Iggy. "And my Abuela's recipe calls for almond extract. It's what gives them that extra nuttiness."

"I wonder where Max gets _her_ extra nuttiness from," Iggy quipped. Gazzy snickered loudly. I strongly considered flipping the table and beating the stuffing out of both of them, but I wasn't going to be a terrible houseguest, so I settled for sending him telepathic death threats that I hoped Angel wouldn't passively pick up.

"So, Max," Dr. Martinez said conversationally as she expertly assembled a _fourth_ Thanksgiving-leftover-sandwich for Nudge. "Is everything okay?"

I stopped with a cookie halfway to my mouth, feeling myself flush in embarrassment.

"I told you we'd always be here, if you ever needed help," Dr. Martinez said softly when she saw my face. "And I meant it."

 _Welp, Max,_ I thought to myself. _Time to swallow that massive, unforgiving pride of yours._

"It's about the chip in my arm," I said in a small voice. "I know you said you weren't sure if you could take it out without damaging my arm. I've thought about it, and I've decided that I don't care." I looked up and met her gaze with as much strength as I could muster. "I need you to take it out."

There was a beat. The entire room had gone silent, save for the sounds of Nudge inhaling her sandwich.

"Max…" she breathed. "I—I don't think—I mean, with the kind of life you must lead, I don't think it would be safe for you to…"

Wordlessly, I stood and turned around, pulling my shirt halfway up my back to show the healing gunshot wounds. I turned back around and gestured to Nudge, who pulled down the shoulder of her top to show the bandage there. "They're coming after us. In places they shouldn't be able to find us. Intermittently, but still. They've started to use guns. And I'm done gambling with our lives."

Dr. Martinez puffed out a breath of air, looking as though she was considering my words.

"If it's a tracking chip, then why are they only able to find us sometimes?" Fang asked quietly from next to me.

"The chips that we place in animals differ by manufacturer," Dr. Martinez explained. "They all emit radio frequencies that are tracked by GPS, but each manufacturer has different towers, most with different frequencies."

"Like cellphone companies," Iggy said.

Dr. Martinez nodded. "As you move through different areas of the country, for example, you navigate in and out of range for these towers. This usually isn't an issue for pets, who can't cover hundreds of miles over the course of a few hours, and typically remain within the radius of their chip's towers. But for someone like you…"

"We lived in the same place for a year, though," Angel said, frowning. "How come it took them so long to find us?"

"This chip looks like it was inserted when you were a baby—back then, this technology was fairly new, which means older, outdated towers. I would think the manufacturer has started building more of them, though, in order to find you. Especially if they were searching for you over a wide distance—once they could pick up your frequency, they could easily triangulate your location, if not ping it directly."

Suddenly, everything I'd eaten felt like it may come back up. My head started aching, but in a normal way, not in a brain explosion way. I dumped my head into my hands, groaning.

"Max?" came Dr. Martinez's worried voice.

"Fine," I said. Fang put his hand on my shoulder—I shook it off. "I'm fine."

I tuned back in just soon enough to catch the end of Nudge's conversation with Iggy. "…And all of that would explain why the Voice comes and goes, too; I mean, if it's being transmitted, then it could only get to Max if we're in range, right?"

"Might have something to do with why it hurts so bad," said Iggy, turning his head to me. "Maybe it's not easy for whoever it is to talk to you."

"It talked all the time when we were in Virginia, though. Right, Max?" said Angel.

"Maybe whoever's behind it was in close range," said the Gasman. "I mean, Ari was there. And Anne and the Headhunter. Even _Jeb_ at the end. That means something, right?"

My head was pounding, and I suddenly felt beyond exhausted—too exhausted to delve further into this conversation. I didn't care about any of the technicalities. I just wanted it gone. "Will you take it out or not?"

Dr. Martinez gave me a long, level look. She was squinting, as if she was trying and failing to extract my thoughts from my brain. "You're certain about this? I'm not going to sugar coat it: there's a good chance you won't be able to use your arm ever again."

I sighed and turned my left arm over and let it fall on the table. The messy scars from the Beach Incident shone in the overhead light. Dr. Martinez gasped. Fang went rigid next to me. The flock, wisely, was silent.

"I tried to cut it out myself last year. It was a stupid move. But now that my family's lives are at risk, it won't feel so stupid to try again."

Fang's eyes narrowed. He gripped his half-eaten cookie so tightly that it turned to dust in his palm. "Is that a threat?"

"No," I said honestly. "But you know just as well as I do that when I freak out, I don't think straight. If we were under these circumstances last year, I wouldn't have stopped sawing when you got down to the beach."

As if he couldn't stand to look at it anymore, Fang pulled my arm off the table, sighed through his gritted teeth, and said to Dr. Martinez in an icy voice, "Take it out."

My eyes flashed from Fang to Iggy to Dr. Martinez and then back again. Dr. Martinez nodded once, looking defeated. "I'll look back over your x-ray tonight. We'll do it in the morning."

"Great," I said. The relief was instantaneous. "Now—did you say something about a shower?"

* * *

I couldn't remember the last time I'd taken a hot shower. Like— _literally._ I don't even know how long I spent in there, but by the time I got out, I was pruny, waterlogged, and smelled like orchids.

Dr. Martinez had thrown my clothes in the wash while I showered, so I put on my freshly dried jeans and a t-shirt Ella had produced from the depths of her closet. We spent some more time with the Martinezes, most of which involved me trying to force Dr. Martinez to let us sleep somewhere else to keep them safe if Erasers came after us, but after the twentieth time of her reassuring me that no towers for the chip in my arm were near enough to locate me, I caved.

By late afternoon I was asleep on my feet, so I took a long, blissful nap.

When I woke up, it was dark outside. After checking on the flock—all showered, fed, and sleeping—I snuck down the stairs and flew up to perch on the Martinez's roof. Here, in the suburbs, most of the stars were visible, but if I looked to the east, I could see the lights of Phoenix staining the darkness orange.

I'd only been on the roof for a few minutes when I started to shiver—I'd forgotten how cold the winters got in Arizona—but it gave me a sense of clarity, forced me to think. I laid flat on my back against the shingles. _This time tomorrow, I could only have one working arm,_ I thought. I held out my left hand, clenching it into a fist, then spreading my fingers wide, like the legs of a starfish.

Then, out of nowhere, a coat dropped onto my face and a familiar voice said, "Maybe they do arm transplants nowadays."

I shot into a seated position so fast, it made me dizzy. Fang was standing over me, looking alert and awake.

"They do faces," he said. "Why not limbs?"

I pulled the coat on and lay back, feeling my heart slow to its normal pace. I knew he was trying to make me feel better, but nothing was going to pull me away from my thoughts. He sat silently next to me and then lay back, too.

"I thought you were sleeping."

Fang shook his head, staring up at the sky. "Can't."

Of course. I should've known better. A safe, quiet space; a warm, comfortable bed? No one on watch? Fang wouldn't sleep until we left.

With him at my side, I usually felt much more relaxed. But tonight, with so many variables awaiting us in the morning, I felt scared and guilty.

"How am I going to fight with only one arm?" I whispered.

Fang turned to look at me. "You might not even have to."

"But what if I _do_?"

He seemed to consider this. "We can cross that bridge when we get to it."

"That's a terrible answer," I replied. "I'll have to rethink everything, do it all differently."

"At least you're right-handed," Fang said after a moment of consideration. He held up his left hand, examining it in the moonlight. "I'd be screwed." When I didn't say anything, he sat up next to me, scrutinizing me with his gaze. "You're really that worried about it?"

"Of course I am! How am I going to protect them?"

"You're a great fighter. You'll be fine. Plus, you have me. Strong, fast, disappearing, handsome, et cetera."

I refused to meet his eyes, instead staring back up at the stars.

Fang heaved a tired sigh and stood up, reaching his hand down to me. "C'mon."

"What?"

"Let's go."

" _Where_?"

He tilted his head toward the ground with a crooked smile. "Spar."

I groaned and tried to pull my hand back, but he didn't budge. "Stop."

"Nope," he said, popping the _p._

I'd known Fang long enough to know that he wasn't very good at taking no for an answer. I felt far too defeated to argue, so I let him pull me up and jumped down into the front yard. I shed the jacket he'd brought me, cracking my knuckles and shaking my cold muscles out.

Fang dropped a few feet from me. "New rules, though," he said as he advanced. He took off his belt, and just when I opened my mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing, he pressed my left arm to my side and cinched the belt tightly around my waist.

Immediately, I felt out of sorts. My heart fell. If this was going to be my new reality, things were going to change. A _lot._

"You're going to kick my ass," I said.

Fang shrugged one shoulder as he backed away. "Maybe."

"Or you're going to go easy on me."

Fang chuckled and fell into his defensive position. "You know me better than that."

I crouched and held my right arm up, about as close as I was going to get to my old fighting stance. "Fine. Let's go."

Neither of us moved for a moment. I racked my mind for a way to make this quick and painless, but before I was able to string together a coherent thought, Fang had tackled me to the ground.

I was able to shake off my surprise quickly enough to writhe away and stumble to my feet several yards from him. "You _never_ start on the offensive."

Fang shrugged and balanced on the balls of his feet. "Thought I might be able to pin you right away, get it over with. Considering you seem to have already given up."

That fired me up a bit. I took a couple of steps toward him. He sidestepped, but I was quicker—I landed a kick to his side that nearly sent him to the ground.

He caught himself against the trunk of a tree. I threw a punch at his head, cursing when I missed—my center of balance was completely out of whack. I tried again but only connected with bark when Fang dodged out of the way.

I swiped my foot out: Fang's feet flew out from under him and he dropped to his ass at the base of the tree. In the half-second it took me to take a step back and reset, he'd barreled at my knees, sending the two of us falling to the ground.

I threw a wild punch and managed to clip his ear. He grunted and jerked away before rolling off of me. I forced myself to my feet and kicked in his direction, but he barrel rolled before I could make contact. I hadn't accounted for this change in momentum, so I completely lost my balance and fell like a ton of bricks.

Today, I share with you Newton's little-known fourth law of motion: an object in motion rapidly accelerating toward the ground does not stop itself from face planting when it only has one functioning arm. My jaw hit the ground hard enough to smash my teeth together, and I was barely able to roll over before Fang's smirking face blocked my view of the night sky as he wrestled me into submission.

We were both panting, puffs of air dissipating like wisps of smoke from our lips.

I'd never admit it, but Fang had been right—the spar made me feel better. Sure, I'd lost my balance, which allowed him to pin me, but balance was something I could learn. Fighting, though, had come just as naturally as it always did.

Slowly, Fang started to fade into his invisibility. I groaned. "God, this is already obnoxious."

Fang chuckled, making him snap back into view. "Leaves in your hair," he said, retracting his arm from my neck and picking one out. "Sorry. Can't remember the last time you were this clean, and I ruined it."

"Ha-ha," I rasped. "Don't get used to it."

For a long moment, he just stared down at me, studying my face with a scrutinizing gaze. Then his expression changed, and he reached for a handful of leaves.

And sprinkled them over my hair.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he spoke first, eyes unreadable as always. "I think I like you better like this," he said softly. He traced a finger in the dirt next to us and then drew a line down the bridge of my nose.

 _Whaaaaaat?_

"What are you doing?" I breathed. My heart was ready to explode in my chest. I felt totally paralyzed by fear.

He ducked so his face was inches from mine. His breath smelled like the mint toothpaste the Martinezes bought, and his eyes were warm. When he spoke, it was nearly inaudible. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

And with that, he leaned all the way down and kissed me full on the mouth, like I was the last thing left in Armageddon.


	9. NINE

NINE

The first thought that came to my mind was: _Nononononononono absolutely not nope nope nope eject eject abort abort abort code red this cannot happen escape escape run run run._

Then, after a moment of tasting Fang's soft lips on mine, feeling the warm puffs of breath from his nose on my face, and letting the electric heat of the moment burn through my body, all I could think was:

No, that is not a typo, folks. I couldn't think anything. At all.

I had kissed Fang exactly once before, moments after Ari kicked the stuffing out of him the first time (evidently, he was too close to bleeding out and dying for a repeat performance from me the second time), and I think we'd both been stunned more than anything else. I hadn't planned it; I'd just done it. And then I'd felt hot and cold and scared and excited and ultimately had to clamp it all down so I wouldn't implode from all the emotions.

This time was different. This time it was so much more than me saying, _I'm glad you're alive._ This time it was _him_ telling _me_ , _I know you're scared, but I'm here no matter what. I believe in you. I care about you._ It was a promise.

He pulled away slowly. I stared at the curves of his eyelashes, the lines of his cheekbones, the bend of his lips—features I knew like the back of my hand but felt like I was truly _seeing_ for the first time. His expression was full of emotion, his lips red, his eyes smiling.

He was gorgeous, and I didn't even have the agency to care how lovey-dovey that sounded.

He bent back down to kiss me again, this time a little harder, freeing his hand from mine so he could instead knot it in my hair. I leaned into him and ran my unbound fingers along the front of his shirt, wondering why we'd never done this before.

It was around then that I realized the absurdity of the situation: Fang was straddling me on the ground in front of the Martinez's house, tangling a hand in my hair, moving his body ever so slightly against mine—

That was all it took—I broke the kiss and pushed back, trying to scurry out from under him. Very difficult to do with one hand, I'll tell you, but I'm nothing if not determined.

Fang let me go right away, leaning back on his heels and raising his hands innocently. When he met my eyes, his own were full of concern. "What happened?"

"I—I don't know," I squeaked out. My mind flashed to the other morning, when I'd woken up with him curled around me at the mouth of the cave, and I felt myself flush again. I'd never felt this way before—it was terrifying and disorienting and I wasn't sure I could handle it on top of everything else. "I just—I can't—"

Fang leaned forward and raised a tentative hand in front of me before placing it on my shoulder.

"You're fine," he said gently. I shrugged his hand off. He frowned and withdrew it. "Max?"

 _I'm afraid,_ I wanted to say. _You make me feel out of control, like I can't handle my emotions, like I don't know what to think._

Yeah—that's what I _should've_ said. Being my delicate, well-adjusted self, I clawed like a startled bird of prey at the belt around my arm, trying and failing to free it with one hand. Within a matter of seconds, I was hyperventilating and burning up despite the cold night air.

Fang leaned forward slowly, like one might approach a scared kitten, and then uncinched the belt, letting it drop to the ground next to me.

"I—I need a minute," I finally managed to get out in a raspy, shaky voice. How's that for calm, cool, and collected? I scrambled to my feet and turned, flung my wings open, and took off. I couldn't bring myself to look back at Fang.

I knew he wouldn't follow me, so I didn't bother with superspeed. Instead, I flew in circles for a while, trying to fight the overwhelming urge to shriek.

How did I feel? That was the loaded, million-dollar question. I mean, things had been different for Fang and I for a little while now—he was more open with me, had been really close with me while we were at Anne's, had spent more time with me over the past year—but this was a monumental change in the course of our… friendship? Relationship?

Oh, God.

He had kissed me. _He_ had kissed _me._ One of my hands found my lips, feeling the soft skin there, remembering how his mouth had felt on mine. And suddenly I was on fire, panicking, and crawling out of my skin again.

In reality, I wanted to punch him. Things were complicated enough as it was, and now I didn't know what to do. My brain felt like it had been reduced to something akin to jello. Which was totally _not_ ideal when I had to a) have surgery and possibly lose my arm in the morning, b) find and then overthrow a massive company run by totally evil scientists, and c) continue to take care of and manage a flock of five starving, parentless mutant freaks.

I tilted a wing to wheel in a big circle and finally let loose the exasperated scream I'd been holding in. I may have snuck a curse word or six in there. Part of me hoped Fang could hear me.

Another part prayed he couldn't.

* * *

"We need to talk," was the first thing that came out of Fang's mouth the next day.

He had me cornered in the bathroom as I brushed my teeth, one long arm extending the width of the doorjamb. Unfortunately for him, it was six in the morning and I was wound tighter than a grandfather clock due to the upcoming microsurgery I'd be having, so I was about as pleasant as a drowning cat.

"Pretty sure we _are_ talking," I said, spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste.

"You know what I mean."

"Not sure that I do."

Fang sighed frustratedly and dragged a hand down his face. "Max."

I splashed some cold water on my cheeks and braced myself against the sink, chancing a look at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were wide, and my face was flushed. I tried and failed to look less terrified.

"Fang, I can't do this right n—"

In two strides, Fang had closed the distance between us and backed me against the far wall of the bathroom. One of his hands found the tile behind me while the other cupped my chin. My face was still dripping.

When he spoke, his voice was just as charged as his expression. "Then when?"

I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream, _Is this a game to you? We don't have time to run around playing house!_ But the small part of me that still had scruples—believe it or not, it's there—knew I owed it to him. To myself.

To _us._

The idea was enough to send a shiver down my spine.

By the time I got my bearings, I had every intention of falling back on my usual cop-out of saying something snide, of suggesting that Fang was a sexist pig, but my throat got tight and all I could manage was a head shake and two raspy syllables: "After."

Fang's eyes flashed. _After what?_ I knew he wanted to know.

 _After everything,_ I wanted to say. _After it's all over._

And when was that going to be, you might ask? No freaking clue.

Blissfully, Dr. Martinez chose that moment to appear. "Max? Fang?" she called softly from the hallway. I peered over Fang's shoulder and saw her just outside the doorway, looking alarmed. "Everything okay?"

Fang eyed me intensely for another long moment before stepping back. His face indicated that we'd be revisiting this conversation later.

"Yeah," I croaked. "Everything's fine."

"Almost ready to go?"

"As I'll ever be."

Ella hopped into the shower while Fang and I followed her mom down the stairs and into the kitchen, where four very sleepy flock members were inhaling bacon and eggs.

"I still don't understand why we have to come," grumbled Nudge. "I was so _comfortable._ "

" _Because_ ," I said, dropping a kiss on her head before snatching a plate for myself, "I'm not leaving you here unprotected when bloodthirsty wolfmen with guns are coming after us."

Iggy's head shot up. " _Unprotected_? What am I, obsolete?"

I groaned. "Iggy. You _know_ we're always safer in a group."

Iggy grumbled something unintelligible into his plate.

" _Ella's coming_ ," I whispered so only he could hear.

He kicked me under the table with fantastic accuracy, but his cheeks lit up like a stoplight.

"I'm still not sure why _I_ have to come," Total growled. "A veterinarian's office? Have I _any_ self respect?"

"You're more than welcome to stick around here," I said offhandedly. "Good luck if the Erasers come."

"Total, _no!_ " shrieked Angel.

Total sighed. "Only for you, my pet. The things we do for those we love, eh, Lady Magnolia?"

Dr. Martinez insisted on taking a cab to her office. That way, she said, if somebody from her work drove by, there'd be no sign we were there. We, of course, opted to travel by air. We landed in the woods behind the building as inconspicuously as we could manage. When we walked around to the front, the Martinezes were unloading the dogs and a bag from the taxi.

Iggy took the bag from Dr. Martinez, frowning as he felt it. "Blankets? What're these for?"

"Might as well nap in the waiting room, right?"

Iggy was startled into a grin. "Now you're speaking my language."

Once inside, Iggy, Ella, and the kids started spreading blankets. When Dr. Martinez led me into an examination room, Fang fell into step beside me.

"I'm fine. Stay behind, get some more rest," I told him, but he just rolled his eyes and kept walking with me.

"The office is closed for the holiday weekend," Dr. Martinez said as she opened the door and flicked on the lights. "All emergencies are diverting to the animal hospital in Phoenix, so we won't have any surprise visitors."

The exam room alone sent me into a panic. The white walls, the metal table, the smell of antiseptic—it was all too much. I froze mid-step. Next to me, Fang faltered, too. His face had paled a shade or two from its normal olive tone.

"It's okay," Dr. Martinez said. "Come sit down, Max."

I shook my head. "I can't," I whispered.

"What's wrong?"

"The smell, and the walls—I need to get out of here." I turned on my heel but walked straight into Fang. I inhaled his scent deeply, willing it to calm me down.

"Oh, Max," Dr. Martinez said in an impossibly soft voice. I knew that tone: it was the, _what did they do to you?_ kind of pity. Oh, the stories I could tell her.

Fang put his hands on my shoulders and turned me back around. "You're fine," he said. The deep, familiar timbre of his voice, usually so comforting, washed right over me.

"I promise, you're safe here," Dr. Martinez insisted. "I would never do anything to hurt you."

I believed her, but even that couldn't shut down the PTSD-ridden part of my brain. Years and years of reinforcement that we'd never be safe made sure of that. All I could do was shake my head over and over.

"You don't understand," I forced out. I could hear the whir of the bone saw in my head, could practically smell Jeb's department store aftershave.

One of Fang's hands found my shoulder. "Take a second," he said so quietly that I could barely hear him. "Breathe."

I closed my eyes and counted backward from ten. _Everything's fine_ , I told myself. _Fang's here, Dr. Martinez is here, everything is fine._

"Take your time," Dr. Martinez said, looking troubled. "When you're ready, I have something to help you relax."

It took a few minutes, but I was finally able to lay back on the examination table without throwing up all over myself.

"I'm going to put this mask on, okay, Max? This is nitrous oxide; it's going to help with the anxiety."

"Nitrous oxide?" I repeated, jerking away from her reach.

Fang had an unholy grin on his face. "Laughing gas."

Dr. Martinez smiled. "About as nonthreatening as it gets."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. She handed me the mask and helped me situate it over my face.

"Cute," Fang commented, gesturing to the mask with a smirk. I flipped him the bird.

The overwhelming positive to hyperventilating while on laughing gas is that it really helps circulate that stuff _fast._ Less than a minute later, I couldn't even remember what it felt like to be anxious.

Dr. Martinez snapped another x-ray. While she examined it, I let my head fall to my right side, where Fang had pulled up a chair. When I saw his face, I felt completely and utterly at peace.

"God, is this what normal people feel like all the time?" I slurred through the mask. My voice was muffled and light. I barely recognized it.

Fang snorted. "High?"

"No, no, no. Unstressed. Nonstressed. Whatever. You know what I mean."

"There's a word for that. It's called _relaxed._ "

Fang's amused expression made me giggle. And, what do you know, the kicker with laughing gas is that once you _start_ giggling, it's almost impossible to stop. Charming.

"Your face is cute like that," I said.

Fang frowned immediately. In my haze, I couldn't figure out what the emotion was that was written plainly on his face.

I frowned, too. "Don't do _that_ ," I insisted. "You're pretty when you're not brooding."

"Okay, Max," Dr. Martinez interjected as she strapped my left arm down, "I'm going to draw some quick lab work and inject a local anesthetic. I'll let you know when I'm actually going to start the procedure, okay?"

I felt half a second of worry before it melted away, like chocolate fondue on a fountain. I nodded and saluted her. "Aye aye." Then I remembered Fang was next to me. "I'm not kidding, y'know. You should smile more often. And laugh. I like it when you laugh."

Fang's face was now _several_ shades paler than normal, but my fuzzy mind couldn't make out why that might be.

"Noted."

"And your teeth," I added. "You have good teeth."

"And all this is why you keep me around?"

I shook my head vigorously, making myself dizzy. I gripped the edge of the table with my right hand, as if that would stop my world from spinning.

"No, no, no," I mumbled. "You know it's not that."

"Oh?"

Then I had a brilliant idea. "D'you want some?" I asked, gesturing to the mask.

Fang flashed a crooked smile and shook his head. "I think you need it more than I do." Then he turned to Dr. Martinez. "Can we get some of this to go? I think this is the first time I've ever seen her relax."

"Hey!" I reached a hand out to whack him but missed my mark by about six inches. "I do _too_ relax."

Fang gave me a pointed look. Before I could answer, Dr. Martinez was cleaning my arm with an alcohol wipe.

"Okay, Max," she said from my left side. "Injecting the anesthetic."

"Wait!" I cried urgently.

She startled, leaning away from me. "What? What's wrong?"

"I need to say something."

Fang stole a sideways glance at Dr. Martinez, who nodded at me.

"Listen," I said seriously, fighting the tears that were all of a sudden threatening to fall, "if I die on the table—"

"Oh, Jesus…" muttered Fang, pressing a hand to his forehead.

On my other side, Dr. Martinez was laughing. "Max, I'm not certain about a lot of things, but I'm one hundred percent sure that you will not die on this table."

I ignored her and peered at Fang intensely. " _If I die on the table,_ " I repeated emphatically, "I need you to know something. You're important. _So_ important. I need you. And you have to take care of the kids—oh, God, the _kids_!" I lamented.

"Okay, Max," Fang said. "I get it. You're going to be fine. Enough talking."

"No, no, _listen_ —I _need_ you. I—"

There was a prick in my left arm followed by a panic-inducing feeling of numbness.

Then, just like that, the panic was gone. Thanks again, laughing gas!

But… what had I been saying?

"Fang."

"Yes."

"Everything's gonna be fine. Right?"

"Always is."

" _Fang_."

A sigh. "Yes, Max. Everything's gonna be fine."

Silence.

"Fang."

"Yes."

"Thanks for being here."

"Don't mention it."

"No, I mean— _thank you,_ " I said earnestly, very concerned that he didn't understand how serious I was.

"You're welcome. Now be quiet."

This got the giggling going again. "Here you go with the orders. _I'm_ in charge. Unless I die on the table. _Then_ you're in charge."

"Ready, Max?" asked Dr. Martinez.

"Huh?"

"I'm going to start. Okay?"

I nodded lazily. "Uh-huh." I looked back at Fang, whose eyes were anxiously darting from my left arm to my face and then back again. He took my right hand in his. It registered to me, vaguely, that it was clammy. My spaced-out mind didn't know what to do with that information. "Maybe we should ask the boss. Fang, are _you_ ready?"

"Shh. Stop talking."

" _Shh,_ " I mocked. " _Shh._ You're so _serious._ "

Fang offered a pleading look over me at Dr. Martinez, although I couldn't figure out why.

"Secrets don't make friends," I slurred.

Dr. Martinez sighed and reached forward to adjust my mask, then fiddled with a dial behind her. "I'm going to increase the flow rate. Take some deep breaths for me, Max."

So I did. And then I was drifting away, slowly, slowly, to a place more peaceful than any reality of mine would ever be.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, I was nearly blinded by the overhead surgical light. I groaned and shut them again, too groggy to feel anything but annoyed.

Fang's voice cut through the silence from my right. A weight lifted from my chest that I hadn't even known was there at the sound.

"Hallelujah. She is risen."

"Ugh." My mouth felt like one giant cotton ball. "Water," I begged.

Fang chuckled and placed a cup in my hand. I levered myself up on my arm and sucked down the whole glass. Then Fang refilled it and I drained it again.

"Why do all the fun things leave you with a hangover?"

"You remember anything?"

I grimaced. I couldn't remember _what_ I'd said, but I could guess, based on the stupid, cocky look on his face, that it had been something incriminating. I was sure it'd all come blissfully rushing back to me once I shook off the fog.

"No, but I'm sure it was completely drug-induced and therefore cannot be used against me in a court of law. How long was I out?"

"If you say so," Fang said with a smirk. He produced a few packets of saltines, which I dug into immediately. "Only about an hour. Everyone's dead asleep. Dr. Martinez is in her office."

I was tearing into the second package of saltines when I noticed Fang's eyes on me. Of all things, he looked _happy,_ which seemed surprising to me, given the circumstances.

Then I saw the flash of gauze on my left forearm, which was _supporting my weight on the table,_ and gasped.

"Took you long enough to realize," Fang teased.

"She did it," I said in wonder. And sure enough, she had—I flexed the muscles of my arm and curled my hand into a fist."Oh, my God. Fang," I started, but I couldn't decide what to say next.

"All that worrying for nothing," he said lightly.

"Where's the chip?"

"I took care of it." He must've noticed the question in my eyes, because he shrugged. "I've been wanting to smash something for a while."

"Did you—"

"Burn the pieces? Yes. And then I flushed the ashes. I'm more than just a pretty face, you know," he said with a wicked grin. "O ye of little faith."

Before I had time to kill him, there was a knock at the door and Dr. Martinez walked in.

"Oh, good, you're up."

With a grin, I waved to her. With my left arm.

She let loose a giant sigh. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.

"You had great reflexes," she said, "but you were still out, so I couldn't be sure how much functionality—"

Before I could think too much about it, I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her as tightly as I could without crushing her fragile little human bones.

"Thank you," I said. My voice was thick with tears I wouldn't shed—it had been an emotional enough day all around without me ending up a blubbering mess. "I will never be able to repay you."

"Oh, Max," she breathed, finally relaxing in my arms and putting hers around me. "I'm just so glad I could help, no matter how little. And that you know you can ask me for help. _Any_ time."

If I tried to say anything more to her, I would _definitely_ end up a blubbering mess, so I retracted my arms and took a steadying breath. Somehow, something had gone _right._

And because my life is full of twisted irony and misery, that's the moment Angel came barreling through the door.

"Erasers," she gasped. "Out front. I don't know how many."

I bit back a loud, angry M-F bomb. " _What_?"

"You're sure?" Fang asked.

Iggy appeared behind her. Ella was glued to his back, sandwiched between him and Nudge, looking nothing short of terrified. "Positive. They've got radios. Not sure who they're communicating with. We've gotta go."

Fantastic.

"We need to get out of here. _Now,_ " I said to Dr. Martinez.

"There's an emergency exit right here," she said, gesturing to the door in the corner of the exam room. Her dark eyes were wide. "Takes us out to the back where the dumpster is. What are Erasers?"

"Bad news. Fang, don't leave her side." Fang nodded and pulled Dr. Martinez right to him. "Iggy and Nudge, both of you—cover Ella. I'll bring up the rear. Single file," I ordered with a whistle. " _Now._ "

Fang flung the door open. Dr. Martinez was right behind him, followed by Ella and the rest of the flock. Nudge had a terrified Magnolia crushed to her chest, and Total's head poked out of Angel's backpack. I pounded out after them and chanced a look toward the parking lot, but I couldn't see anyone.

"Trees!" Fang called from ahead. Wordlessly, we veered in the direction of the woods.

"They're on the move," Iggy said gruffly ahead of me. He was essentially dragging Ella behind him.

The Martinezes, although human, kept a decent enough pace with us. Once we made it to the trees, Fang grabbed Dr. Martinez's hand.

"Up and away," he said by way of explanation, and then scooped her into his arms and threw his wings open.

Iggy did the same with Ella. "Just shut your eyes," he said gently as we ascended. "I'm not going to let you fall."

Fearless Leader Max was desperately grasping at straws to formulate some kind of plan. Unfortunately, _all_ of the Maxes that compose The Great Maximum Ride were still burning off the fogginess of laughing gas, so I had to really focus on keeping my shit together.

 _One thing at a time,_ I told myself. _Step one:_ _get Ella and Dr. Martinez safe._

"Back to the house!" I ordered. "As soon as we get there, you two need to pack up and head out, get somewhere safe, lie low—"

Angel's voice tore through the air just then " _Total_!" I did a complete three-sixty, raking the sky for signs of danger. Then my eyes settled on her.

And her half-open, very empty backpack.

 _Shit._ The _freaking_ dog. "How the hell did we lose him?" I shrieked.

"I don't know! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Angel wailed. " _Max,_ they're gonna _get_ him!"

"I'm heading back down!" I called ahead, internalizing the very loud, very ugly swear words I wanted to scream at the universe. "You guys go, I'll meet you there!"

" _What?_ " barked Fang, braking sharply. Dr. Martinez let out a little squeal, but he didn't apologize. His grip on her was white-knuckle. "No way! You're _not_ going back alone!"

Yeah, like _that_ was gonna stop me. "Stop wasting time. _Go!_ "

Gazzy glided down toward me, a determined look on his face. "I can come."

I didn't have time for this. "Gazzy, sweetie—"

"Fang's right. You can't go alone. You need back-up. Cover, at least. Or a distraction. I'll stay out of the line of fire. I want to help," he begged.

I gave him a long, steady look. Gazzy. My little trooper. Growing bigger and stronger by the day; almost as tall as Nudge, now. Loyal. Intelligent.

And when he wanted to be: _dangerous._

"Stay hidden," I ordered.

He grinned and nodded. "Wicked."

"Stay _glued_ to me," I added. Then, to the flock: "See you at the house."

And boy, did I really hope I would.

* * *

 _A/N: T_ _he Valium incident was too good for me to not put my own spin on it. Laughing gas is a great frigging time._


	10. TEN

TEN

Gazzy and I coasted over the tree cover, using our raptor vision to find any trace of our tiny, ulcer-inducing black blob of pompous fur. When we _found_ said tiny blob, I was going to kill him, mostly for ever existing in the first place, because of how inconvenient an entity he was in this family.

Yeah, I can try to pretend my heart is that cold.

"This is what we're gonna do," I said to Gazzy, whose eyes were alight with excitement. "You are going to perch, _very_ quietly and _inconspicuously,_ in a tree. You are not going to move. You are not going to come out for _any reason._ And if I give you the signal to get the hell out of dodge and go back to the Martinezes, you are going to _listen to me._ Do you understand?"

As I spoke, the Gasman's excitement decompensated to disappointment, then to annoyance, then to full-blown boredom.

Too bad.

"What am I even here for?" he grumbled.

"You're the one who wanted to come."

"Yeah, so I could _help_!"

"You _are_ helping. If they somehow capture me, you are going to fly back to the flock as fast as possible and tell them. You _will not_ play the hero and come after me. Is that clear?"

"Well, in that situation, it'd be a lot easier if I just came after you," he muttered.

" _Is that clear?_ "

"Crystal."

"Going to need to hear you say it."

Gazzy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Hide, don't move, don't do anything, run away when you tell me to, be useless, yada yada yada. Got it."

I braked and crossed my arms. "This isn't a _joke,_ Gazzy, these things are—"

"—dangerous, maybe even lethal, and have you _seen_ the bullets in those guns? This is non- _negotiable_!" he continued in a perfect imitation of my voice. Then he grinned diabolically and raised his voice several pitches. "Oh, _Fang_ —!"

"I will kick your prepubescent ass from here to Utah if you make another sound," I snarled.

We landed silently in the trees. Through the leaves, we could see the fully-morphed Erasers standing outside the office around their Jeeps, chattering away into their handheld radios.

"Well, doesn't look like he's over there," Gazzy whispered.

After a few more minutes of waiting, heavy footfalls crunched through the woods to our right. I peered down, not daring to breathe. The Gasman went as still as one of Medusa's victims.

"They'll come back for me!"

Gazzy opened his mouth as if to shout, _Total!_ , but I slapped a hand over his face so fast I was sure it'd leave a mark.

" _Inconspicuous!_ " I hissed.

"Of course they will," growled the Eraser. "They'll be heading toward the office, though, won't they? And you'll be out here. With me. A simple trap for simple minds."

"They're smarter than you. Than all of you!"

I met the Gasman's eyes and mouthed _don't move_ as threateningly as I could. He nodded somberly and crouched a bit more sturdily in the tree.

I waited for a gust of wind to mask the sound of my movements and then dropped to the ground, walking as delicately as I could manage. Erasers were big and clunky, but we were light and quick—it was an underrated advantage that we always capitalized on.

The Eraser dropped to his knees by a stream that cut through the underbrush. I hid behind the wide trunk of a desert willow, trying to calculate an attack that wouldn't end up with me as the main course and Total an after-dinner mint.

The Eraser unsheathed a blade from a holster on his waist, raising it toward the light of the midmorning sun, admiring as it glinted and glimmered. His back was toward me, and his body blocked my view of Total.

"I'd ask if you had any last words," the Eraser purred. "But I really don't care."

"And you call yourself a man of honor?"

 _Oh, Total, bless your run on mouth. Keep going, keep going._ I started weaving my way through the trees, pausing behind the larger ones to catch my breath.

"Never said that," said the Eraser.

"What kind of man kills another without allowing him his last words?" Total cried. "No, 'Give it here, Montag?' No, 'Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar?' No, 'Severus, please?'"

I was close now, maybe fifty feet from the riverbank, but I needed a weapon. A quick scan of the forest around me did nothing but suggest that I was, in fact, totally screwed. Just when I'd accepted defeat and prepared myself for hand-to-hand combat, I saw it out of the corner of my eye: a jagged rock, pointed on one side, sticking out from the underbrush.

The Eraser was distracted by Total's antics, and he didn't seem happy about it. "Oh, would you _shut your—_ "

"This is not where my curtain closes!" bellowed Total. "'Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief! O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die—'"

 _Thwack._

You know, I don't even know that _thwack_ is the word I really want to use to describe the sound. Have you ever crushed a beetle with a rock? Or maybe stepped on a piece of glass with your shoe? I think it was more like that—there are an awful lot of very breakable bones when it comes to those skulls of ours, Eraser or not.

Anyway, the moron collapsed to the dirt like a sack of flour under the blow. Total wormed out from underneath him and raced to my side to nuzzle against my jeans.

"Finally," he breathed. "I was wondering how long I was going to have to keep that up for. My knowledge of Shakespeare is lengthy, I promise you, but to think under such _pressure_ like that…"

My hands absently found his ears to scratch the soft fur there. "You knew I was here?"

"You're not the only one with a sharp sniffer, bird girl," said Total, wrinkling his nose. "Now, can we get out of here?"

A distinct, familiar sound cut through the air—a screech, like that of a hawk. Like the hawks at Lake Mead. It was too close, too low to actually belong to a raptor that size; this wasn't their territory.

My head swiveled in the direction of the sound. The trees. _The Gasman._

A warning signal.

I nudged Total behind me with the toe of my boot. "You're going to need to do your best to stay out of the way, because I think this is about to get pretty ugly."

"I believe in you," he whispered back.

Sure enough, in a matter of seconds, a lone Eraser emerged from the tree line. He was massive. And he had a gun.

Without meaning to, I sighed in frustration.

"Thought my friend here might've run into some trouble," he said, gesturing to the Eraser I'd clobbered into oblivion.

"No," I said mildly. "Just a rock. Oh—wait. That may have been my fault."

"Well, well, well—maybe we underestimated you, after all," he said with a sickening grin. He cocked the gun.

"Always do," I quipped, trying desperately to think of an escape plan that didn't end with me full of lead. Somehow, a giant rock didn't seem to be enough. "How's that been working out for you?"

 _Plan, plan, plan. Need a plan._

"Any time now," Total murmured to me out of the side of his mouth.

"Looks to be alright, right now. You know us Erasers—we're nothing if not avenging."

"Oh, _please,_ " Total groaned, apparently unable to _keep his freaking mouth shut._ "What are you, a Lannister?"

A _what?_

The Eraser raised the gun with killshot aim. "See you in hell, Maximum Ride."

I dove at Total and, clutching him, somersaulted out of the way of an impact that never came. Because instead, a familiar voice boomed through the forest, one that sent a chill from my head all the way to the tips of my toes.

It was Ari's voice. Ari. Who had died in West Virginia. It took me a minute to trace where it was coming from. Then I realized it was the trees.

Gazzy was throwing Ari's voice. " _Back to base!"_

I eyed my attacker. Luckily for us, he was totally unaware of both Gazzy's skill _and_ his presence in the woods, so he looked like he'd been kicked in the gut, jaw slack, eyes wide with confusion.

Jackpot.

I gotta give it to him—to his credit, the Eraser only faltered for about half a second. But that was all it took for me to scramble to my feet and get in his face before he could even throw up a hand to defend himself. I leaned forward and cupped my hands over his ears before kneeing him once, hard, between the legs. As he dropped, the steel toe of my boot found that delicate spot between his cheek and his eyeball. He roared with pain and hit the grass.

"Coast is clear! U and A!" I heard Gazzy yell.

He didn't have to tell me twice.

Total leapt into my arms and we rocketed into the air. As I swung by Gazzy, I shouted, "Grab my foot!"

"Hang on!" I turned in time to see him throw a medium-sized _something_ through the air. It cleared the trees and exploded violently just as it fell into the group of Erasers into the parking lot.

That kid could make _anything_ explode.

With a few pumps of his wings, he caught up to me. As soon as he locked on with a tight grip and folded his wings in, I kicked it into overdrive, and we were careening through the sky.

If I didn't know any better, I'd guess we made it back to the Martinezes in fifteen seconds. Our crash landing in the front yard wasn't ideal but traveling at two hundred miles per hour with panic streaking through you could do that to a girl. I staggered to my feet, turned around, and flung myself at the Gasman so forcefully that it could probably have been classified as a tackle.

"Are you okay?" I examined him at arm's length for bulletholes.

"Fine, fine," he said dismissively. "Except for that landing, hot _damn—_ "

I crushed him to my chest again. "Quick thinking back there."

"Good thing I was _conspicuous,_ huh?" he said cheekily.

"Why the _hell_ did you just happen to have a _bomb_ on you?" I asked severely.

Gazzy offered a toothy grin and shrugged. "You're welcome?"

Our welcome party came dumping out the front door before I could give him a stern talking to that I didn't really mean and he wouldn't really listen to.

"Total!" cried Angel.

"Oh, God, those _savages!_ " he lamented, throwing himself into Angel's arms. "I wasn't bred for this lifestyle!"

"I'm so sorry," I said to Dr. Martinez, feeling my voice break. Her face was pale and scared. Guilt shot through me like lightning. "I'm so, so sorry, I never meant for this to happen, this is why I didn't want to come back—"

"When I said I'd help you, I meant I would help you. Some things are so much bigger than just us and our little world," Dr. Martinez said with a glance at Ella. "We both know that."

"I'm so sorry," I said again.

"I'm not," she said back, and she smiled.

"Touching scene, but we need to move," Fang said urgently.

I wanted nothing more than to take this moment, save it, and then shove it into a time and place with better circumstances. My whole family, alive and well, healthy and happy, and these two women with hearts of gold. All in one place. It was an alliance we could grow from. It was a chance at something next to normal for the kids.

The kicker with my life is that there is no such _thing_ as times and places with better circumstances. And as much as that made me want to throw myself into the dirt, pound my fists, and wail about the unfairness of it all, I never seemed to have the time to pencil a tantrum of that magnitude in.

So instead I sighed, nodded, and rolled my shoulders back into place. "He's right." I looked at the Martinezes. "You two need to split. ASAP."

"We're headed to my mother's, upstate," Dr. Martinez said, gesturing to two giant duffels beside her. "Spoke with her just before you landed. She lives on an isolated bit of land by the canyon. She's over the moon to have company. She's been begging me to move in with her for almost fifteen years, ever since Ella's father left."

How could she be so casual about this? "You don't understand," I said, shaking my head. "These people are dangerous. _Beyond_ dangerous."

Ella nodded. She looked sad, but also determined. "We know."

It was almost unbelievable that I'd encountered these people by chance. In a world full of evil scientists and traitors, I'd found two truly kind, wholesome human beings. And they _cared about me,_ about my family.

When I spoke, my words were thick. "Give it at least a month. When you come back, be hyper aware of your surroundings. If anything suspicious happens, leave again. We'll come back once we… once our mission is done. Once _all_ of this is done. And this time, _I_ want to be the one helping _you._ " Dr. Martinez nodded and gave me that Supermom smile again.

"Tick tock," muttered Fang.

Right. "Get your packs on, everyone, we're rolling out. Total, you're riding with Iggy."

"Erm." Total cleared his throat. "About that."

God, was he dramatic. "Don't have time for whatever this is now. Later. Let's go."

Then, Total said something that completely blindsided all of us: that he wanted to _stay._

"That is, if the ladies will have me, of course."

I choked on my own saliva. Charming. "You _what_?"

Tears immediately filled Angel's eyes. "Total, no!"

"Don't cry, my swan," he said, trotting over to her and rubbing his face on her pant leg. She picked him up and he nuzzled into her. " _You_ are my family. But this life—the danger, the violence, the running—I wasn't built to thrive under these circumstances. I'm a young, attractive Scottie looking to settle down, not fight for survival every single day."

"Must be nice to just decide you don't want to deal with it anymore," Iggy said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Total, you _can't_!" wailed Angel.

"If you love something, let it go," Nudge said with wonder. "Isn't that what they say?"

"Total, no," I said, trying to process what the _H_ was going on. "You can't just expect them to take you in. That's inconsiderate."

"Then I'll stay on my own! Wander, like the free-spirited nomad I am!" he cried. "But it will be a life of peace. I cannot continue to risk my life, it's not good for my health!"

"It would be our pleasure," said Dr. Martinez. When I gave her a look, she added, "Honestly."

Our goodbyes were short (except for Angel, who Fang had to pry away from Total). I hugged Dr. Martinez extra tight. "We _will_ come back, once this is all over," I said again. "Lay low."

"Take care of yourself," she said into my hair.

Next was Ella. I hugged her, too. "Take care of yourself. And your mom. And our dog."

Ella sniffled. "Okay."

"You'll see me again soon. I promise." She nodded into my shoulder. I leaned close to her ear and said quietly, "And I'll be bringing that redheaded doofus with me."

Ella laughed and took a step back, flashing her beautiful smile and shaking her head at me as she wiped away her tears. I offered one last wave to the Martinezes and Total, feeling like I was leaving a part of myself behind.

But there was no time to mourn any losses. So instead, I locked my feelings about it all tightly away and kicked off into the wide, blue sky, and we were gone, baby, gone.

* * *

Angel cried so hard for the first few hours of our trip that we had to stop much sooner than planned. Say what you want about parenting habits, but sometimes, they really do _cry themselves out._

After several hours of stop-and-go travel, we were forced to make camp a few hundred miles northeast of Albuquerque, New Mexico, right in a little state park along the Colorado border. The landscape was not only breathtaking, but it was also full of canyons, which meant plenty of towering mesas and buttes to camp out on.

We found a particularly deserted area of stone that was both high over the canyon and well out of eyesight of anything that could want to kill us. Within ten minutes, we'd stuffed ourselves with some of the nonperishable food Dr. Martinez had forced us to take and the kids had sprawled out. Fang was erecting a giant fire that would hopefully burn long and hot overnight to keep us from turning into mutantcicles when the temperature dropped.

A very disheartened Iggy was redressing my arm in that expert way only he could. He let out a low whistle when his fingers ghosted over the wound.

"She wasn't kidding."

"What?" I peeked down at it—I'd popped a couple of the stitches, but it otherwise looked clean. Healthy, even. I felt a burst of happiness when I remembered that the chip was _gone._

"That puppy was in there _deep_."

"How could you possibly know that? She sewed it shut."

Iggy cracked a halfhearted smile and wiggled his fingers. "Spooky, isn't it?"

I rolled my eyes, but I was secretly happy he was able to joke; he'd seemed pretty busted up about having to say goodbye to Ella so soon.

"Let me guess. Rolling your eyes?" I blinked, searching for words, and he laughed. "Don't worry, I'm still blind. You're just predictable."

I shoved him. He laughed again, secured the new bandage, and scooched back to his original spot, stretching his ridiculously long legs in front of him.

"I'm sad we had to leave," said Nudge miserably from Iggy's other side. "Ella and her mom were so nice."

Next to her, Angel looked absolutely despondent. It was the few and far between times like this that reminded me of how young she truly was and how different her life could've been if she'd been dealt a better hand.

"We'll be back," I said. I wasn't sure if I was saying it more for them or myself. I'd repeated it about fifteen thousand times since we'd left the Martinezes. I think a small part of me believed that if I kept saying it, it'd come true.

A wicked smile spread across Nudge's face. She wasted a sideways look on Iggy, who was none the wiser. "Well, we _have_ to go back."

Iggy seemed to sense her gaze on him. He tilted his head like a confused puppy. "What?"

"Duh. You're in _loooooooove,_ " she crooned.

Iggy's head snapped toward Nudge. His eyebrows shot to his hairline and a blush crept over his cheeks. "I am _not_ in _love_!"

From his spot sprawled on the ground next to Fang, Gazzy snickered. "Oh, dude, youare _so_ in love."

"Shut up!"

"You kissed her hand," Angel pointed out, looking very serious. "That means you love her."

"You've seen _way_ too many Disney movies," I mumbled under my breath. Across the fire, I saw Fang almost crack a smile.

"I _kissed her hand_ because it was the polite thing to do!" Iggy insisted.

Gazzy shot up into a seated position with a hand over his heart. "' _A whole new wooooooorld—_ '" he crooned in a perfect imitation of Princess Jasmine's voice. How he remembered _exactly_ what she sounded like was beyond me.

Across the fire, Fang guffawed. Iggy's flush had reached his ears. "Enough!"

"' _A new fantaaastic pooooooint of view—'"_

"I swear to God, Gazzy—"

"'— _no one to tell us no—'"_

"—if you don't shut your goddamn mouth—"

"'— _or where to go—'"_

" _GAZZY!_ "

"— _or say we're only_ —'" Iggy picked up a good-sized rock and threw it over the flame. It landed square between Gazzy's eyes. " _Hey!_ "

"Next time, it'll be a boulder!" Iggy bellowed.

" _Easy_ ," I warned.

"I'm just _saying_ ," Gazzy said cheekily, "you didn't kiss _Dr. Martinez's_ hand."

"I'm done talking about this," Iggy announced.

"Gazzy, back off. Ig, we're just giving you a hard time. I think it's awesome that you like her. She's great," I said. And I meant it. It _was_ awesome. Iggy was getting a little taste of normalcy, something _all_ of us deserved but rarely got.

"I still don't get it," said Gazzy, scrunching up his nose. "Y'know, the whole _love_ thing. Girls are weird." This time, it was Nudge's turn to throw a rock at him. He dodged this one with a frown. " _What?_ I'm serious."

"Well, for one, she's nice, and she's smart, and she's hilarious," said Iggy.

"That's three things," said Gazzy.

Iggy ignored him and plunged on. "Second, she thinks I'm cool, which all of _you_ are too simple to understand."

"Yeah, _that's_ what it is," I muttered.

"See? You _do_ love her!" Nudge squealed.

 _"Lastly,"_ he plunged on, "I'm pretty sure she's cute."

"How could you possibly know that?" I said blankly.

Iggy, who could not possibly have a rational answer for me, instead turned his sightless gaze to Fang. "Fang?"

Fang raised his hands in a "don't ask me" kind of gesture before continuing to silently prod the fire. This made my heart give a little jolt, which, in turn, made me want to put my fist through a wall. I gritted my teeth, as if that might stop me from emoting. Fat chance.

"He's pleading the Fifth," I clarified to Iggy.

"Oh, come _on_ ," Iggy moaned. "Whatever happened to the bro code?"

I snorted. " _Bro code_?"

"I think Ella's beautiful," Nudge said. "Her skin is really tan. Not as dark as mine, but darker than Fang's, you know? And she has really pretty brown eyes. Kind of like Max's. And really long eyelashes. And her hair is just _so_ pretty, kind of curly, and this dark brownish black—"

"Okay, okay," I cut in. Yeesh, all this touchy-feely crap was going to give me diabetes. "Enough. Iggy, your love saga will continue _after_ we're done saving our own asses."

"I do not _love_ her!" Iggy yelled indignantly. He was now approximately the shade of a tomato, which clashed magnificently with his hair. How badly did I wish he could see himself.

"Oh, I think you do," said Gazzy.

"If you marry her, then Ella would be our sister!" said Angel.

 _Oh, Jesus._

" _Okay,_ " Iggy said, throwing himself into the dirt. He covered his head with one of his extra t-shirts and rolled so his back was facing us. "I'm done. You all suck. Goodnight, you motherf—"

"We should all probably turn in," I interjected. "Early start tomorrow. We need to cover a lot of ground over the next few days."

The flock fell asleep fast and hard, a result of the long day we'd had. Fang and I sat up for a while in silence, him on his laptop, me laying on my side, facing him. He was on first watch, but I felt wired from the excitement of the past several hours. Every so often, he'd flicker in and out of sight—it had only been a couple of days, but he could already maintain the invisibility with tiny movements. My stomach turned and I pushed the feeling away.

It seemed like days ago that I'd had the chip removed. I looked down at my left hand and curled it into a fist. _Thanks, universe, for not totally screwing me over on this one,_ I thought.

Then I considered something else. _Voice?_

Blessedly, I didn't get a response. Maybe something _else_ had gone right—maybe the chip really _had_ been responsible for the Voice. It seemed like common sense, but with our luck, I couldn't be too sure.

"Still can't believe it worked?" Fang asked lowly, eyeing my fist as he shimmered back into view.

I nodded. "First time something's gone right in I don't know how long."

"Was bound to happen at some point."

"Says you." I sat up and shook the dirt out of my hair. Then I leaned over to peer at Fang's laptop.

He had two separate web browsers open, splitting the screen in half. On the left was the photo of the scholastic decathlon team from Boston College High School. On the right was a Google search.

"Still nothing?"

Fang shook his head. "No matter what I look up, I can't find anything. I know this picture is our big clue. It sounds crazy, but I can feel it."

"I get what you mean. What did you think of Angel's ideas?"

"I'm not surprised we can't find much online, since the photo is so old. But most schools keep copies of their yearbooks in their libraries, and I'm sure there's at least one teacher or janitor or something somewhere in that place that's worked there for thirty years. If we can get the names of these guys and cross-reference them with some keywords, maybe we'll find something."

It seemed like kind of a stretch, but it was genuinely our only lead of any kind. "So, what? We just stroll into Boston College High and ask to see their library? Pretty sure they're cracking down on that sort of thing nowadays. One look at you and they'd do a cavity search, thinking you had a gun."

"Ha-ha," deadpanned Fang. "I was thinking more along the lines of Angel."

My stomach dropped. "You know how I feel about—"

"This is way different than what Iggy was suggesting. It'd be a piece of cake for her to get us through a couple of teachers. Especially if we went after school was out. Remember back at Anne's? With all the clubs and sports, that place was a free-for-all after the final bell."

I considered this. "I guess you're right," I said slowly. As much as I hated using Angel's powers to exploit people, this seemed to be our best bet at finding Vector. And he was right—this was worlds less extreme than Iggy's suggestion about removing my chip.

"Okay," I decided, exhaling heavily. "Yeah. That's our plan."

"Angel's tougher than you think," he said. His voice held a tenderness that he only ever reserved for her. "You'll never see it that way, but she's not a little kid anymore."

"I know," I whispered.

"And you have to admit that it's almost creepy, how smart she is."

That got a laugh out of me. "Terrifying." I stretched my arms over my head and yawned, once again thanking whatever lucky stars I had that my arm still worked. "Alright. I'm hitting the sack," I said, laying back down and curling up on my side. "See you in three hours."

Fang looked at me like he wanted to say something. He seemed to change his mind and instead said, "Night."

For the first time in a long time, I was asleep in minutes.

* * *

 _A/N: God, Gazzy's ability is so fun. I can't believe James Patterson didn't use it more._


	11. ELEVEN

ELEVEN

The next morning, Fang and I got up early and headed to the nearest town to score some breakfast. Dr. Martinez had loaded us up with as many nonperishable food items as we could carry, but even those would only get us through the next day or two, so it was smarter for us to save them for emergency situations.

It had to have been only forty-five degrees, but the skies were clear, and the sun was warm on my feathers. Fang flew to my left, close enough that our wingtips nearly brushed on our downstrokes. His powerful wings were almost purple in the sunlight, something I'd always admired about them. I caught myself blushing and looked away.

 _Food,_ I reminded myself. _Need to find food._

To anyone you who thinks a life on the run would be fun (if you exist): you're a moron. I thought of the meager wad of bills I had rolled up in the toe of my boot and sighed. "I wish we could actually afford to buy enough food to sustain us. You know, stuff with calories and protein, not just canned corn. Gazzy's getting so skinny you can barely see him when he turns sideways."

"He's a ten-year-old mutant hybrid," said Fang. "Remember when Iggy and I were that age?"

I did. After Jeb busted us out, he'd been shocked by how much _all_ of us ate (and horrified at how little, in comparison, they'd actually been feeding us at the School), but Fang and Iggy had been eating around five thousand calories a day. And were _still_ hungry.

Gazzy was growing like a weed. He'd be close to my height in a year or two, I was sure. Unless the lack of sustenance stunted his growth.

"But, since you mentioned it…" Fang said, producing a bit of plastic from his pocket that mysteriously looked like it said _Visa Gift Card_ on it, "I think we may be able to swing a little more than usual."

Instantly, my stomach dropped. "What is that?" I asked dangerously. When I reached my hand out for it, he drew it back closer to him slowly.

"A Visa gift card," he said calmly.

"Don't you dare play with me," I snarled. "What. Is. That."

Fang sighed. He knew I'd react this way, and that's why he'd kept it from me. Well, too freaking bad. This was treason of the highest degree.

"From Dr. Martinez. A parting gift, she said."

Even though I'd known it was coming, I felt my gut twist. I was not a big fan of accepting help. _Especially_ from the Martinezes, who had already sacrificed so much for us.

"How much?" I demanded.

"Don't know," Fang said with a shrug.

"Don't mess with me."

"Max." I could tell he was getting frustrated. Again, I say: too freaking bad. "I don't know. She made me take it. Wouldn't tell me how much."

"She just _handed_ you this."

"Yep," said Fang.

"And you _actually took it._ "

"Yep."

"And you did this without consulting me _why_?"

He shrugged. "You were busy."

I glared at him lethally, daring him to continue to fuck with me. He looked ready to slap me.

"What do you want me to say? She and I both knew you wouldn't take it."

"Of course I wouldn't have taken it! I can't believe you _did!_ "

"Yeah. I did. Because I'm not too proud to accept help."

"That's taking advantage of her, Fang! She's helped us enough, and she's already paying for it by uprooting her entire life!" I was absolutely fuming. I angled my wings to swing in a tight circle. "We're going back. We're not keeping it."

"And this is why she gave it to me," Fang mumbled under his breath.

I think he thought I wouldn't hear it. Too bad. "We're going!"

Fang edged into my way so quickly that I nearly slammed into him. "She tried to give me one of her credit cards. I wouldn't take it."

"Wow, what a fine, noble gentleman you are! So instead you took a Visa card with an indeterminate amount of money on it without batting an eyelash? You saw _nothing_ wrong with that?"

"Max," he said again, but I cut him off.

"Don't 'Max' me."

Fang sighed again. He'd somehow manipulated our flight pattern so we were back on course. I was ready to punch him so hard that he fell out of the sky.

"She begged me to let her help us. Said it was the least she could do. She cares about you."

"She's met me _twice_!"

"I didn't say she was a great judge of character."

I was in no mood for joking. I began to consider _actually_ punching him so hard that he fell out of the sky.

"She's a single mom. She does _not_ have money to be throwing around."

"She's a veterinarian," Fang felt compelled to remind me. As if I'd forgotten. As if it _mattered._

"I don't care if she's the President and has servants and the West Wing and a Chief of Staff and makes a billion dollars a year!"

Fang was quiet for a moment.

"Is that actually how much you think a sitting US President makes?"

"If you open your mouth one more time, your dead body will be dropping thousands of feet onto some sorry soul below us."

There were a few moments of silence. When Fang spoke again, his voice was gentler. "We have no clue what's on here. It could be twenty-five dollars."

"You're bullshitting me if you actually think there's only twenty-five dollars on there."

"She's a good person. She wants to help. If she didn't have the money to give, she wouldn't have. You need to learn to let people help you. We're not exactly in a position to reject it."

I was too angry to speak. My jaw was so tight that I feared for the lives of my molars.

"You know I'm right."

Obviously, deep down, I did. But was I going to admit that? If you guessed yes, then you obviously haven't been paying attention.

We flew without taking for a while.

"She also told me to take care of you," he said finally. His voice was quiet and nonrevealing.

Obviously, he had a death wish. I silently counted to ten before answering. "I'm guessing you neglected to tell her that I'm more than capable of taking care of myself?"

Fang looked over to me, expression indistinct. I didn't expect him to say anything, but after a few moments, he did.

"No," he said gently, piercing me with those inky eyes of his. "I told her I would."

The old Max would've said something snarky, like, "Thanks but no thanks," or, "Did it ever occur to you that _you_ might be the one who needs taking care of, you misogynistic ass cactus?" But the new Max was working on _not_ shutting people (read: Fang) out and _not_ putting up walls, so I kept my mouth shut.

Because if I really got down to the nitty gritty of it, I'd be lost without Fang. He was the only person I could confide in, the only person I could really share the leader role with. He looked after me. He held me together when I couldn't hold myself together.

So that left the question of who looked after Fang. Was it me? Sure, there had been times that I'd physically defended him. During our captive years, I'd thrown myself in front of him in the School's courtyard to absorb a blow countless times. I'd talked him through a couple of nightmares over the course of our lives. But the thing was, Fang didn't really crack. When I really thought about it, no one else in the flock seemed to. At least, not as much as I did.

Nope. Just me. The leader. The one who was supposed to be strong. Losing my shit left and right, over here. Take a number. Step right up to the show.

"I know what you're thinking," Fang called over to me.

"That coral reefs are dying at an alarming rate?" I spat. I was still fuming.

"You put too much pressure on yourself. You're sixteen and you're already going grey."

One of my hands automatically found my head. I drew it away, scowling. "Do you _really_ want to go there?"

"It's not easy to be in charge," he said. "We all know that. You couldn't pay me to do what you do." I felt the need to point out that _I_ wasn't getting paid, but I figured it wasn't really something that would contribute positively to the conversation. "Quit deflecting," he added as an afterthought.

"Whatever," I grumbled. This wasn't something I wanted to talk about now. Or really _ever._ "I'm fine. I just need all of this to be over."

Fang nodded, giving me another long, void look, but said nothing.

I scanned the ground below and locked my gaze on a fast food joint. "Going down," I announced. Then I dove before Fang could say another word.

* * *

I once again won't bore you with the details of what was, start to finish, an uneventful trip. It's funny—you'd think the adventures of six mutant birdkids on the run would be exciting no matter what, but when nobody's trying to kill us, it's pretty mundane, typical runaway shit.

Next to me, Iggy let loose an exaggerated cough and wrinkled his nose. "Are we there? It smells like smog."

"Oh!" Nudge cried, pointing a skinny arm down through the cloud cover. "Oh, is _that_ Boston?"

I almost couldn't believe it, but it was. We'd flown for the better part of four days, and now the jam-packed, busy little capital of Massachusetts was thousands of miles below us. The afternoon sun was beating down; it was uncharacteristically warm for late-November (early December? I'd have to check a newspaper when we landed) New England. A huge plus, considering we'd be squatting, much like we had during our trip to New York City.

"Thanks, global warming," Fang uttered, tugging his collar away from his neck. We all ran hot, but Fang ran _hot_.

"Before we do anything, we have to try to wash up and stow our packs away somewhere safe." I racked my mind for an idea. A hotel? A waste of Dr. Martinez's gift, but for one night, it couldn't hurt. Subway tunnels? If people lived in them in New York, I couldn't imagine Boston being much different. Or maybe, first, a park? I vaguely remembered Fang mentioning one in the heart of the city.

"There are some islands off the coast, in the harbor," Fang said, reading my mind yet again. "I've seen them on maps. Seem pretty isolated. Could be better than staying directly in the city."

I considered this. Fang was right—it would be _way_ safer to stay somewhere deserted—but how would we find Vector? And could we really risk finding a spot to safely land unseen as we traveled back and forth?

"For tonight, after we check out the high school, that sounds like a plan. Tomorrow, though, we need to relocate. Start searching."

"That one looks like no one lives there," said Gazzy, pointing.

Once on the island—Thompson Island, Fang informed us—we found a fairly dry patch of land just upland of the shoreline. The giant oak trees helped block the bitter northwestern wind. We jammed our packs snugly in the trees, did our best to make ourselves presentable, and then left for the mainland.

We landed in a deserted park just north of where the high school was. Between the fog, the overcast skies, and the wind, we were well disguised during our descent.

Gazzy whistled when we arrived at the front of the building. The front wall was entirely made of glass, and he peered in.

"Wow. This makes _Anne's_ school look crappy."

"There are lots of people in there," Angel said. I took her small hand in mine and tried to offer an encouraging smile.

"Let's find someone, ask them where the library is," Fang suggested.

We ventured up the steps, doing our very best to look like we belonged. Students were _everywhere_ , heading to the parking lot, racing to the subway, flocking in groups in their sports jerseys. Nobody seemed to notice us.

Next to me, Fang was raking the building with his eyes, memorizing the layout, mapping exits. Iggy's fingers dusted the back of my windbreaker. I knew he was out of his element here, surrounded by innumerable foreign sounds and smells. If I was overwhelmed, I couldn't imagine how out of sorts _he_ felt. I gripped Angel's hand a bit tighter.

The door was unlocked, and with all the foot traffic, it was easy to slip in inconspicuously. I swept the spotless lobby for somebody who looked gullible enough to believe whatever story I was going to spit at them.

And what do you freaking know—the first student we happened upon was a girl.

A very attractive, _redheaded_ girl. With bright green eyes.

Unbelievable, my luck. Truly.

One look at Fang and her eyelashes were batting away. "You look lost," she said with a sickly giggle. Her lips were painted red.

Let me interject here. I may not be your normal, run-of-the-mill teenager, but I pose the question: who the _hell_ wears lipstick to school? Or, like, _ever_? I mean, I spend most of my waking hours worrying about whether or not I'll even _have_ a next meal—imagine if I had to worry about whether or not said meal was going to ruin my lipstick?

Humans. Sheesh.

 _Focus, Max. Backstory, backstory, backstory. Parents are missionaries? Here to tour? Homeless; please give us your lunch money? Members of a gang; please give us your lunch money?_

Before I could say something stupid, Fang flashed his dazzling smile. It was enough to stun the deadest, most emotionless of hearts, so this girl, who struck me as the hopeless romantic, watches-the-Bachelor type, was history. Of course, I knew this over-the-top, flirty version of Fang was an act, but it didn't make me want to barf any less.

"I'm an athlete from another school," he said sweetly. "My family's here to watch. I just need to print something for homework before the game. Where's your library?"

I allowed myself a moment to study his face: after all, it wasn't too often I got to see it so full of emotion, however forced. I felt a pang of sadness at what could've been, had our past not turned him into the silent, stoic Fang we knew him as. He truly was handsome. His features were quite emotive when they wanted to be. Happiness suited him.

My momentary lapse in judgment and sap-fest was interrupted by Trampy Redhead's swooning.

"Ooh, a jock who _studies_ ," she said in a sly voice.

I felt the need to point out that this was BC High—based on our research, they were _all_ jocks that studied, so this shouldn't have been a groundbreaking concept to her—but I was working on picking my battles, so I didn't.

But God, this was terrible. I mean, how embarrassing for her, right? It wasn't like Fang was interested.

Right?

"The library," I reminded her through gritted teeth before I could think about it too much.

Her eyes flitted to me. She blinked a couple of times, as if she was noticing me for the first time. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows narrowed a bit.

"Up the staircase, to the right. Can't miss it."

"Thank you," Fang said in that stupid, flirty voice.

She turned back to Fang with a dopey expression. "I can show you the way, if you'd like."

Fang opened his mouth to say something, but I stepped in front of him, hands coiled into fists, ready to sock the girl. "Petty sure we can handle a flight of stairs. Thanks, but no thanks. Come on, guys."

With that, I stomped off like the level-headed person that I am. The flock fell into step behind me. Nudge chattered on and on about how beautiful the school was, but I was too ticked off to pay attention.

The hairs on my neck stood up and then Fang's voice was at my ear. "You are _so_ the jealous type."

My instinct was to grab him, pin him to the nearest wall, and drive my fist into his face. Then it dawned on me that he was freaking right, so I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming and settled on saying, "Don't flatter yourself."

For those of you who've never been to BC High, let me tell you—that library is _impressive._ Trampy Redhead had been right when she said you couldn't miss it. Towering bookcases lined the walls. The glass wall we'd seen from the front was the north wall of the library, granting us a fantastic view of the skyline.

Unfortunately, it was packed with students. "Crap," I muttered. "Didn't think about this part."

"Man, these people _love_ math," Iggy said quietly, cocking his ear toward where a group of people stood around a whiteboard littered with strange looking symbols. "I feel _way_ less freaky."

"Maybe they won't notice us?" the Gasman said hopefully.

"Oh, they're noticing us," Angel mumbled from next to me. "We don't fit in."

I looked each of us up and down. Windswept, dirty, and exhausted. Backs like Olympic swimmers. Freakishly tall, from six-foot-four Iggy all the way down to four-foot-five, eight-year-old Angel. Yeah. We didn't exactly _blend_.

"I think I can make them all leave," said Angel.

"All of them?" Fang said.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "I can make the librarian tell them the library is closed for the afternoon. That way, we'll have it to ourselves."

Huh.

"Great idea, Angel," I said, yet again shocked by her quick thinking. "I want to do some recon. Ask around, see if any teachers might know anything."

"Bad idea," said Fang. As if I'd asked his opinion.

"Enlighten me."

"He's right, Max," said Iggy, seeming to sense my inability to agree with Fang on _anything_ at this moment in time. "Even if you try to act like you're from a different town, it'd be suspicious if some random kid started asking teachers about students from almost thirty years ago."

Man, I was really off my game. I let out a small sound of frustration.

Gazzy waved his arms. "Look at all these people. There's no way every teacher knows every student. You could be the new kid. Just started today."

I glanced down at my outfit. Torn jeans with permanent grass stains on the knees. They were still dotted with bloodstains from my run-in with Ari's gun. My shirt looked relatively okay, but my windbreaker had seen better days. Not to mention the giant slits in the back.

"Uh," I said by way of explanation. I gestured vaguely to myself.

"Well, that's an easy fix," Nudge said. "You just need a uniform."

"Oh, man," Iggy said lowly. "They're wearing _uniforms_?" He elbowed Gazzy and muttered, "What do they look like?"

" _Nope_ ," I snapped. Then, to Nudge: "That's a great idea, Nudge, but we have no idea where they even _keep_ the uniforms. Or if one of the ones they have kicking around would even fit me."

Nudge shook her head and started to peer around the library. "I was thinking something a little bit simpler. As in, like… _that_ girl looks about your size."

I followed Nudge's doe-eyed gaze across the library. The girl in question was sitting alone at one of the smaller tables. Tall, slender, athletic. Yeah, I'd probably fit in her uniform. But what—was she just going to hand it to me?

"So now what? I tackle her and force her to strip?"

"Mmm," mumbled Iggy. I smacked the back of his head. " _Hey_!"

" _Please_ , for the love of God, keep the sexual predatoring to a dull roar. Jesus Christ."

Angel had slipped away from the group and was approaching the girl Nudge had eyed. "Angel," I hissed, racing up behind her.

Then, something interesting happened: one minute, I could feel every pair of eyes in the library burning holes through us. Then, in the next, a hush fell over the entire room, and we were no longer objects of even remote interest.

"Angel, what—"

Angel nonchalantly caught the gaze of the girl and gave her a peculiar stare. "Hi."

The girl frowned. "Can I help you?"

"You're going to change into your gym clothes now. And you're going to give your uniform to her," Angel said mildly, pointing to me.

The girl looked confused for a split second before her eyes glazed over and she nodded. "I'm going to give you my uniform," she said to me in a detached, robot-y voice. "After I change into my gym clothes."

" _Creeeeepy_ ," intoned Iggy out of the side of his mouth.

Five minutes later, she returned, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, holding out her folded uniform to me. I quickly locked myself in the library bathroom and changed.

Unfortunately, it soon became evident that Nudge had sort of misjudged her similarities to my body shape. We were roughly the same height, but my legs were much longer than hers. Which meant her classy, fingertip-test-passing private-school-skirt was a smidge closer to a _mini_ skirt on me.

I tugged it down as low on my hips as I possibly could. Because my life is a sick freaking joke, I also happened to have wider hips than this girl, so the skirt had to sit higher up on my waistline. When I was eleven years old and still had the figure of a boy, I prayed for curves, for hips. Now I wanted nothing more than to be shaped like a cardboard box.

I pulled futilely on the knee-length socks, willing them to be longer. I emerged from the bathroom feeling largely like I wanted to die.

Blessedly, the library was empty—Angel had worked her magic and evacuated it.

"Okay," I said, praying nobody would comment. "I'm going to see if any of these teachers have worked here long enough. You guys start going through yearbooks and photos—"

"Whoa, _Max_ ," squealed Nudge with wide, adoring eyes. "You look _totally hot_! Like a _model_!"

Next to her, Angel was nodding with a grin. "You look twenty!"

Iggy was sporting an absolutely disgusted look. "Oh, God, I'm nauseous."

Fang looked up from the yearbook he'd already cracked open. His jaw twitched a fraction, but he corrected it quickly, masking whatever emotion he'd felt in a millisecond. I felt a distinct warmth ripple through my body and shut it down immediately, although I couldn't help the smirk I felt spread across my lips.

Fang shot me a look like, _Don't flatter yourself,_ but the damage was done.

Nudge was still squealing. Iggy and Gazzy looked equally uncomfortable.

"Thank God I'm blind," said Iggy with a shudder. "Ick."

"Double ick," Gazzy agreed.

The collar of the button-up was threatening to strangle me. I yanked it away from my neck and adjusted the stupid ascot-tie-thing. "Enough from the peanut gallery. I'm going. If anything happens, we meet up on the island."

I left them in the yearbook section of the library. Emerging from the double doors, I took a deep, steeling breath, pulled my skirt down one more time, smoothed down my hair, and put on my biggest, most genuine richy-rich-teenage-genius smile.

I sashayed my way through the halls, peering into occupied classrooms in search of a teacher that looked just bitter enough to have been in the career for thirty years. A few of the staff members I passed gave me odd looks but ultimately seemed to cast me off as a new student that they just didn't recognize.

One of the classrooms I passed by was empty, save for a teacher sitting at the desk. I backpedaled a few steps. The door said _Mr. Westwood_ and was covered with stickers and decals.

One of which congratulated him on his thirty years of service.

Jackpot.

I knocked on the open door and poked my head in, trying to look as friendly, happy-go-lucky as I could.

"Mr. Westwood?" I asked. My voice was at least an octave higher than normal, but it was steady, so I counted it as a win.

The teacher's head shot up from where he'd been grading papers. When he met my eyes, he frowned. "Yes?"

"Hi," I said. Then I realized I had no freaking clue what my plan was, here. Again.

 _Hey, teach. I was raised in a hellhole and have wings. Looking for some evil mother company called Vector, think one of your old students may be at the helm. Let me know?_

Aaaah, shit.

"Hi," he said carefully. "Can I help you?"

Then, somehow, the lies started spewing out of me. "I'm sorry. You don't know me—my name's Ella. Ella Martinez." I tried to offer a winning smile. "I'm new here. But I think you knew my father, Spencer?"

Mr. Westwood blinked. I could tell he was racking his mind for any recollection of a Spencer Martinez and coming up empty.

"Class of 1991?" I asked. "Baseball star? He always talks about you. You were his favorite. At least—I _think_ it was you." I frantically searched for something else to back up my story. The walls were covered in various posters from things that vaguely sounded familiar from my history classes at Anne's school, so I took a risk. "He loved US history with you. He says it's why he went into politics in the first place."

And wouldn't you know, that was all it took—suddenly, Mr. Westwood remembered the nonexistent Spencer Martinez.

"Well, of _course_!" he said with a cautious grin, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. He gestured to the desk in front of his. "Sit—Ella, was it? Ella. Spencer... Spencer Martinez! Varsity baseball, right?"

I let out a tinkling laugh as I perched on the edge of the chair. It was a sound I'd never made before and would hopefully never make again. "That's him."

 _Oh, thank you, universe, or Jesus, or God, or Allah, or Satan, whoever—_

"A pitcher, wasn't he? A southpaw, if I remember correctly."

Yup. Yessir. Whatever you say, sir. "All four years. It's funny, though—he talks so much more about his academics. Scholastic decathlon, mostly. I'm hoping to join next year."

Mr. Westwood's eyes lit up. "Oh, I remember the team that year. A bunch of geniuses, they were. Went all the way to the national championship. I chaperoned the trip. I was back in my younger years, you know. Lots of energy. Green as could be."

My jaw was trying desperately to drop to the floor, positively awed by my luck, but I forced myself to continue smiling like a total idiot. "That's actually why I'm here."

"Oh?"

"Well, we just moved back from Arizona, you know? And he's looking to get in touch with the rest of the team. Have a kind of reunion. But my mother apparently threw out his yearbooks during the move, and his memory isn't what it used to be… long story short, he wanted me to ask if you had a list somewhere. Or knew who was still in the area."

Mr. Westwood looked elated at the opportunity to help. "Anything for Spencer Martinez. I think I've got the article somewhere here… let me see…"

He stood and crossed the room, opening a large file cabinet. He flicked through divider after divider, humming absently to himself.

"I'm one of the lucky ones, Ms. Martinez," he said after a few minutes of searching. "Each student touches my heart, you see. I've got a lot of keepsakes. Going on thirty-five years worth of 'em."

"Wow," I said in an amazed voice. My heart was thumping in my chest, but it had _nothing_ to do with Mr. Westwood's thirty-five years' worth of keepsakes. I couldn't believe this was working. Maybe the tide was really turning for me.

Yeah. Maybe.

"Let's see… 1989, 1990… 1991, here we go." He thumbed through a few more pages and extracted one, raising it in the air triumphantly. "A-ha! _Voilà_!"

He held out an ancient newspaper clipping that detailed the successes of the scholastic decathlon team and their trip to Washington, DC for the national championship. The first thing I saw was the photo—the exact same photo that Fang had found online. Next to this one, though, was a list of names, each corresponding with one of the boys pictured.

I reached out a trembling hand and snatched it away before he could look closer and notice that there was not, indeed, a Spencer Martinez on there. Or anywhere in existence.

"There he is," I said in wonder. I covered the names up with my thumb and flashed the clipping to Mr. Westwood, pointing vaguely to the middle of the photo. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead when I thought about how close I was to actually pulling this off. "God, I hardly even recognize him."

"Old age," he chuckled. "Nobody escapes unscathed."

"Can I have a copy of this?" I breathed. "Dad would cherish it."

"Better yet, you can keep it." Mr. Westwood's smile crinkled his eyes at the corners. He genuinely thought he was helping me out and connecting with a long-lost student. A sliver of me felt guilty. The rest of me couldn't find the energy to care.

"Really?"

"Sure, sure," he said with a wave of his hand. "Give it to your old man. Tell him once he's all settled from the move to stop by and visit his old fart of a history teacher."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Westwood," I cooed. "He'll be over the moon."

"My pleasure, Ms. Martinez. And welcome to Boston College High School. Stop by any time. Any time at all."

"I will," I said as sincerely as I could manage. Instead of saying, you know, _I'm a huge impostor and totally just exploited your kindness_. I winked. "I'll see you around."

I turned and walked calmly out of the room. Once I was in the hall, I crammed the photo into the pocket of my skirt and made a beeline for the library, trying to contain my excitement.

I barreled through the doors so quickly that I nearly pitched to the ground. Luckily, somebody was there to catch me—and then pin me to the wall, cheek first, with enough strength that I couldn't break free.

Before I could shake off the shock, my attacker's hands were gone. "Max?"

"Jesus _Christ,_ Iggy," I wheezed.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I was the lookout."

"And you let me get _all the way_ through the door?"

He shrugged, looking embarrassed, and pointed to the ceiling, where a classical song was playing softly through the speakers. "They're playing 'Bach's Cello Suite,'" he said, as if that was any explanation. When I said nothing, he sighed and shook his head.

I straightened my skirt and blouse. The rest of the flock was seated in a semicircle around one of the bookshelves. Yearbooks and old newspapers littered the ground around them. Fang looked up when I walked over. His eyes flitted to my skirt and then back up to my face, but his expression was totally unreadable.

"No luck on our end."

"Fret not, my children," I declared, pulling the newspaper clipping from my pocket. I unfolded it and waved it through the air like a victory flag. "The great Maximum Ride has come through once again."

Iggy materialized next to me. "No way."

"Oh, _yes_ way. Believe it or not, Mr. Westwood knows my father."

" _Huh?_ "

" _Who?_ " said the Gasman.

"Mr. Westwood. He taught my dad, Spencer Martinez, the pitcher-turned-politician who was on the award-winning scholastic decathlon team in 1991," I said with a grin. "Out of the kindness of his heart, he gave me this newspaper clipping—with the whole team's names on it—so I could give it to my good ol' dad."

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Nudge. "Max, you're a genius! I can't believe it worked!"

It felt good to have done something right for a change. "Feel free to bow down. Worship, grovel, what have you."

"Maybe later," Gazzy said in a bored voice.

Fang stood and started collecting yearbooks. "We should split. We can cross reference the names on the laptop later."

I nodded. "Let's go, guys."

"Uh, Max?" Nudge said.

 _I'm hungry_ , I figured was coming. "I know, Nudge. We'll eat something when we get back to the island."

"No," she said. She tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned, she looked me up and down with a sly grin and held out my folded clothes. "You're still in a skirt."

* * *

 _A/N: BC High is an all boy's school, in real life. Well, in this story, they smartened up and started including girls sometime after 1991._


	12. TWELVE

TWELVE

"Some of these names are ridiculous."

"Your name is _Nudge_."

"Uh, excuse me? Your name is _the Gasman._ "

The Gasman paused as if he hadn't considered this. "Touché," he said finally.

We were high in the oak trees of Thompson Island. Nudge had the newspaper clipping in her hand and was reading it in the light of Fang's laptop screen next to her. It was only seven or eight at night, but we were ready for bed. We may be super strong with crazy, inhuman endurance, but after four long days of travel, we needed to recharge our batteries.

"At least our names were made up. These people had parents that _chose_ them. I mean, Russell van Daan? Silas Scythe?" Her squinting eyes widened before lighting up with amusement. " _Oliver Quackenbush?"_

"They don't choose their _last_ names," Iggy said.

Nudge shot him a pestilent glance. "Okay, but like _half_ of them are named Michael or David."

"Just keep reading them off," Fang said with an only-detectable-by-me hint of an edge in his voice. I glared at him from where I was organizing my backpack on the next branch over. We were all dog tired, frustrated, and annoyed, but turning on each other—however minimally—wouldn't help in the slightest.

 _Play nice_ , I said with my eyes. He looked away.

Nudge was none the wiser. She continued to list names in a bored voice. "Michael Clareborne, David Flynn, James McDonald, Finnegan Murphy, Theodore Taylor, Michael O'Connor, Joseph Kelly—"

"Jesus Christ," Iggy muttered. "It's like the Irish invasion."

"—David Auclair, Gideon Goodchurch, John Doyle—"

"Hang on," Fang interjected, whipping his head up to look at Nudge. "What was that last one?"

"John Doyle?"

"No, before that."

"Gideon Goodchurch?"

" _Gideon_?" Iggy said incredulously.

" _Goodchurch_?" Gazzy said in the same tone. "What otherkind of church is there?"

Fang hit a few keys. His dark eyebrows rose, indicating immense interest on his typically emotionless face. I felt my proverbial antennae shoot up.

"This has to be him," Fang said. As he read, I started climbing my way over to him. "Boston Globe article, August 2001: 'Roslindale's Golden Boy Makes Forbes' Coveted 30 Under 30 List.' It's from their archives."

I made my way over to him, sandwiching him between Nudge and I, and leaned so far over the computer that I was nearly on top of him.

"'Born to a lower-class family in the heart of Roslindale, Gideon Goodchurch has proven one thing: hard work pays off,'" Nudge read. "Blah blah blah, volunteered his free time at his local homeless shelter, worked crazy hours to support his mother and sisters, perfect GPA… 'Goodchurch did what nobody in his neighborhood had ever done: he enrolled at Boston College High School on a full academic scholarship…' blah blah blah, total genius, excelled in business, _scholastic decathlon_ …"

I frowned. "You think _this_ is our guy? He doesn't sound like a whitecoat in the slightest."

Fang held up a finger. "Down here. '…Since his days at BC High, Goodchurch has, against all odds, truly risen from rags to riches. A few months ago, at the young age of twenty-eight, Goodchurch founded a new company that he says will completely revolutionize the way our capitalist economy does business, citing the millions of men, women, and children suffering without food, warmth, or shelter as his motivation.'"

I read over his shoulder. _His inspiration? His mother. "My mother is an honest, hardworking, and loving woman," says Goodchurch. "She comes from a long line of working-class families. When my father passed away, she was forced into a life of poverty with three young children to feed. What few people recognize is that our current economic system is full of easily corrected problems that have gone unsolved at the hands of greedy business owners, as well as the state and federal governments."_

I was just about ready to again ask Fang why he thought this had anything to do with us when the next line caught my eye.

 _The name of this company? Vector._

I gasped.

Before I could even bark an order, Fang pulled up a new tab and typed _Gideon Goodchurch, Vector_ into the search bar.

Goodchurch was the CEO, alright, but it quickly became obvious that he—and his _entire company_ —had almost totally dropped off the radar in 2004. Images revealed the occasional paparazzi shot, but he was always in a baseball cap and sunglasses, dressed inconspicuously, and walking quickly.

Unfortunately, in terms of Vector, we were not gifted with an address. In fact, we weren't gifted with much of anything—because the internet was still so undeveloped back in those days, we didn't have a ton of material to scour. Nobody seemed to know exactly what this company did or where its headquarters were located. No website, no LinkedIn page. Nada. This alone set off alarm bells in my head. With Itex, once we'd known their name, we'd recognized how widespread they were. This place seemed far more secretive, maybe even far more powerful.

The last article to even mention Vector was dated from 2010 in a Boston Globe article titled 'Vector CEO Goodchurch and the Big Stick Ideology,' but it was vague, nonspecific, and largely dedicated to how absent Gideon Goodchurch had been from the spotlight despite his thriving company.

"What's big stick ideology?" asked Nudge.

"'Speak softly and carry a big stick,'" Iggy said, as if that meant anything to any of us. When he was met with silence, his jaw dropped. "Teddy Roosevelt? _Seriously_?" he sighed and threw his hands in the air. "Did _anyone_ pay attention back at Anne's?"

"How is there almost nothing on Goodchurch _or_ the company since then?" I asked.

"Maybe he got sick of the fame," Fang said, shrugging his shoulders. "Had to have been a culture shock, growing up the way he did only to end up a millionaire."

Something about this didn't sit right with me, though.

"I don't know," I said after a minute. "I guess we'll find out."

Fang clicked back to the other article. I leaned back against the trunk of the tree, wondering how on earth we were going to hunt down a man who wanted to remain hidden in a city of over half a million people.

"Listen to this," Fang said after a couple of quiet minutes. "'Where is Vector located now? The answer, Goodchurch says, is subject to change. "If you'd asked me two months ago, I would've said my condo in Southie. Business real estate isn't cheap in the city. But once things took off, I found my current location on Brookline Ave. Now that things are _really_ taking off, I'm in the process of another move, location still TBD."'"

"An address?" Iggy said from a couple of branches above us. I thought he'd fallen asleep, but he perked up immediately. "Oh, _score_."

I sat up and leaned back over the computer. Fang typed the Brookline Ave address into the search bar.

The homepage of _Aquarius Hot Yoga_ popped up.

Fantastic.

"Fucking yoga," came flying out of my mouth before I could help it. Gazzy snorted.

Fang scrolled down the page, eyes only inches from the screen despite our perfect vision. "It says they were established in 2012, which means there was probably at least one other business that had the place after Goodchurch relocated. Unlikely that anyone who works there now has any information."

"And if we try to Google Vector's current location…?"

Fang shook his head, looking grim. "Zilch."

Nudge groaned in frustration and lay back against the branch dramatically, draping the back of her hand over her forehead. " _Why_ is it always so _hard_?"

 _Preach, sister_.

"I still think it's worth checking out," I said. "Unlikely doesn't mean impossible. And as of right now, it's the only lead we have."

"Not necessarily."

I looked at Fang, racking my brain. "What, the condo in Southie?" When he nodded, I added, "What even _is_ Southie?"

"South Boston."

"It's been seventeen years, though. You think he still lives there?" I asked.

"Seems like things have gotten a lot more expensive around here over time. Wouldn't be surprised if he stayed, if he had a nice place."

"What are you, a real estate agent?" Iggy cracked. " _Oh, yes, I'd like an open floor plan, an ocean view, and hardwood floors throughout. My budget is fifteen cents—"_

"Think you can find his address?"

Fang shrugged and started Googling different combinations of names, streets, and addresses in South Boston.

"He sounds like he's nice," Angel said tiredly over the tapping of Fang's fingers on the keyboard. I almost jumped—I'd thought she'd been asleep, too. "Somebody who did all that doesn't sound like somebody who would want to make us."

" _Make_ us, I can get," Iggy said. "He's a superfreak genius. It doesn't surprise me that he'd want to mess around with gene splicing. The torture part, though, does seem a little out of character for _Roslindale's golden boy_."

Fang continued his search for a home address in South Boston. After ten minutes of nothing, he gave up.

"What if we just went on their homepage and hit the 'contact us' button?" Gazzy asked. "We could, like, send them an email or something. Or call them."

"And say what?" Iggy asked bitterly. "That we're the mutants they've been trying to kill? To send their Erasers for a six-course meal on Thompson Island?"

Gazzy hung his head, looking embarrassed. "I dunno."

"It's wasn't a bad idea, Gazzy," I said. I channeled some angry waves at Iggy. I already felt close to exploding—his perpetually bad attitude wasn't helping. "The thing is, they don't even have a website."

"Wait, they don't have a _website?_ " Gazzy said. " _What?_ I thought we were talking about a multi-billion-dollar company. Did I miss something?"

"That's what makes this so weird. This company is huge, but they don't need to promote themselves? We had to dig to find pretty much anything about them." I dumped my head into my hands, biting back a frustrated scream. "It doesn't make any _sense_."

The flock fell silent, probably detecting that I was one more confusing development from a total meltdown. I felt Fang's inscrutable eyes on me, but I knew he was worried. I couldn't even feel pissed off about it, either, like I normally would. It was getting to a point where _I_ was worried about me, too.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "The good news is, if he's actually lived there since 2001, the address and phone number may be listed in a phonebook." He closed his laptop and jumped to the unoccupied branch to my right, settling in the crook. I shot him a wordless look of thanks—I couldn't deal with any more of this tonight.

"A _phonebook_?" Iggy asked incredulously. "It's 2018. Where on _earth_ are we going to get a phonebook?"

Nudge sat up ramrod straight with a luminous grin on her beautiful face. "We go thrift shopping."

* * *

I'd taken Nudge thrift shopping maybe three times in her life. I, of course, had gone countless times since Jeb left—it was the only way we could possibly afford to _ever_ have new clothes—but I'd only brought Nudge along three times because the girl loved shopping so much that it was nearly impossible to get her out of the store.

Knowing this, it was remarkable to me that she even remembered seeing phonebooks there. But, go figure, almost immediately upon entering the Salvation Army the next day, we stumbled upon a stack of them. The most recent was from 2005, but they dated all the way back to the 1970s.

I flipped it over and looked at the price. Why _anyone_ would want to buy a phonebook from the 1970s for $2.99 was totally beyond me.

I sat in the furniture section and started thumbing through the pages of the 2005 edition. I made a very unenthusiastic Fang, who was running out of bloodstain-free clothes, take Gazzy and Iggy with him to look through the men's section.

"Max, come on, you've _got_ to shop," Nudge begged.

I was already completely invested in the phonebook. "I'm alright, Nudge."

Nudge put her hand over the page. I looked up, glaring at her. She glared right back, appraising my outfit with a raised brow.

"You need clothes."

"I _have_ clothes."

"You need _new_ clothes. Clothes with no holes or bloodstains."

"Ella gave me some," I argued.

"Ella gave you some t-shirts. That are _way_ too small. And _pink_."

"Nudge. At this point, I'm really not concerned with how well my t-shirts fit or what color they are."

She noisily shoved the desk I'd been leaning over out of the way and pointed to my jeans, which were riddled with holes and obviously filthy with blood, dirt, and other unidentified stains. I cringed.

"And don't even try to tell me she gave you jeans, because I _know_ Ella isn't five-eight."

I sighed. My head was starting to ache again. I rubbed my temples, praying that removing the chip had taken care of my little brain explosion problem.

Nudge's posture changed fractionally. She could tell she was upsetting me, and because she had a heart of gold, that would be enough for her to back off. "Fine," she said gently with a little defeated sigh.

I looked up, feeling terrible when I saw her dejected expression. We needed to find Gideon Goodchurch; he was the key to overthrowing Vector. But that didn't mean I had to make Nudge feel terrible. She was still a kid.

"How about you pick me out something?"

Her eyes lit up instantly. She nodded, determined, and grabbed Angel's hand, dragging her to the women's section.

With that crisis resolved, I dove back into the yellow pages. Ten minutes later, I gave up on the 2005 copy with an angry groan, leaning back in the beat-to-hell armchair and closing my eyes.

 _Breathe, Max,_ I told myself. _One thing at a time. On to the next one._

A grinding noise brought me back to the surface. I sat up straight and turned to see Fang dragging a kitchen chair toward the desk. He dropped a pile of black clothing next to him.

"Would it kill you to wear a _different_ color? Like… _blue_?"

He fished through the pile and held up a heather grey sweatshirt. I rolled my eyes.

"That's basically just light black."

He shrugged. "What's wrong with black? It brings out my eyes."

I rolled my eyes and turned to toss the useless phonebook back where the ancient ones were stacked. "Tell me not to give up."

Fang snorted. "Like you need me to tell you that."

He was right. I was as good at giving up as I was at accepting pity. Still, I was feeling pretty discouraged. "Imagine if things were easy for once?"

"Nope."

I took the 2003 phonebook in my hand and cracked it open, preparing myself for disappointment yet again. Fang reached forward and grabbed the 2001. He pulled a can of nuts from his backpack and the two of us sat in silence, picking through the pages, chowing on cashews, hoping for a miracle.

After maybe five minutes, Fang stopped chewing and sat forward. "What? You found something?"

One of his tan fingers traced the page. "Gideon Goodchurch. 1281 East Broadway, South Boston." He met my eyes, not quite smiling but obviously thrilled nonetheless.

The rest of the flock approached us at exactly that moment. Nudge had a shopping basket full of clothes and dangled it in front of me with a grin on her face. "Wait until you see what I picked out for you!" Then, sensing the mood, she looked from Fang, to me, then back to Fang again. "What?"

"We've got an address."

"Oh, _sick_!" Iggy called.

Gazzy whooped. "Let's go!"

I pushed back from the desk and stood, ready to sprint the whole way if I had to. But Nudge cleared her throat, held up a hand, and shook her head.

"Excuse me. Before we do anything, I have some clothes here that Max needs to try on."

I felt my eyes widen. "You're kidding. Nudge—we have to go. _Now_."

But Nudge crossed her skinny arms over her chest, giving me that stubborn look she reserved for the most serious of situations. "This guy's house isn't going to grow legs and walk away in the next ten minutes. If he lives there now, he'll still live there once you're done trying on these clothes."

I shot a desperate look at Fang, who shot me one back that suggested he knew better than to argue with her, and if I wanted to, it was my prerogative.

"She has a point," Gazzy said very unhelpfully.

I threw my hands up in the air. "Fine!"

Nudge squealed. "Oh, Max, thank you!" She snatched my hand in hers and started dragging me across the store toward the dressing rooms.

Twenty minutes later, we were forty dollars poorer but wearing far more presentable clothing than we'd arrived in. On our walk to the subway, I balled up our destroyed clothes and simply tossed them into one of the trash cans.

After all my complaining, I had to say, it _did_ feel better to be in relatively new, cleanclothing. And Nudge, admittedly, had done a great job shopping for me—she'd selected a few pairs of well-broken-in jeans, several loose-fitting, suitable-for-ass-kicking tops, and a camouflage-print jacket that breathed well while also providing protection from the wind and elements. She'd tried to outfit me in a pair of Converse, but there was no way I was trading my trusty combat boots for a dinky pair of sneakers.

When I'd strolled out of the store in my new outfit, Fang, outfitted in a new pair of blue jeans and his heather grey sweatshirt, had squinted at me, elbowed Gazzy, and said, "Who's that walking with Nudge?"

Hilarious.

* * *

The subway in Boston was fairly similar to New York's, so we figured it out pretty easily. And by we, I mean mostly Nudge. Anyway, it didn't take long to get to the address. The issue was, once we got there, I wasn't sure how we should proceed.

There was a small park across the street from the condominium building. We stood at the edge, eyeing the building with furrowed brows.

"Okay. If this guy is this loaded, he's got to have security cameras, right?"

"Probably," Fang agreed. "The building itself probably has some. Most places like this do."

"Well, crap." I sighed, rubbing my forehead. "Anybody have any genius ideas?"

Silence.

I weighed our options. We really didn't have much of a choice—if we wanted to talk to this guy, we were going to have to knock on the door. I said as much to the flock, who agreed.

"I'll come cover you," said Fang.

I nodded. "The rest of you, stay here. Iggy, you're in charge."

Fang and I slipped into the building behind some unsuspecting girl coming back from a jog.

"What's the condo number?" I whispered.

"2G," Fang whispered back. He pointed to the staircase.

We climbed the stairs, doing our best to look like we belonged. When we made it to the second floor landing, Fang leaned against one of the walls, examining his nails with interest. I knew he had me in his periphery, tracking every single fraction of a movement I made.

As I approached the door to the condo, I considered the possibilities. For one, this guy could be a totally normal, nice dude. Unlikely, considering he was a billionaire, and had been for over ten years—that typically eradicates any chance of normalcy. For two, he could be super evil and maybe even have Erasers protecting his home. Definitely more likely.

There were about a trillion other options. In truth, I had no idea what to expect—this entire situation was sketchy and nonsensical.

No sense in worrying about it now. With a deep breath, I knocked. Then I waited.

The door didn't open.

I turned and eyed Fang out of the corner of my eye. He didn't move, just gave me a look like, _Try again, dumbass._

So I knocked again. Waited. The door still didn't open. I cupped my ear against the door, listening for any signs of life on the other side. Totally silent. After the third knock and thirty seconds of waiting, I gave up.

Hilariously, I hadn't considered the possibility that Gideon Goodchurch might not be home.

I trudged back to Fang, feeling defeated.

"What do you think? Do we break in?"

Fang seemed to consider this. "We could. No cameras out here, but he could have some inside. Could use the footage to track us, assuming he isn't already."

"At least we'd lure him out, know where to find him."

Fang's eyes were blazing. "I know you're anxious for a lead, but we have no idea what we're dealing with."

"Isn't it the same as always? Massive Eraser army, people who want to capture us and experiment on us, pain and suffering until the end of time?"

"I don't know, Max," Fang said with a sigh. "This seems bigger, somehow."

My overloaded brain couldn't make sense of this, so I tabled it for later. In the end, we decided to head back outside and wait Goodchurch out for a few hours. When we saw him heading into the building, we could ambush him, drag him into an alleyway, and interrogate him. Not only would we have the upper hand being on the streets, but it also eliminated the chance of getting caught on any potential security cameras.

So we hunkered down. Fang unzipped his pack and handed out candy bars. Iggy leaned against a telephone pole and closed his eyes. The kids lay back in one of the clearings, staring up at the cloudy skies and talking about normal kid things. It was almost strange to overhear—it was a wake-up call that they were, indeed, _kids._

Several hours later, I'd all but given up. Scrubbing my face with my hands, I puffed out a breath of air, trying to expel the pent-up frustration burning in me. I felt close to screaming.

"We could wait here overnight," Fang said quietly, obviously sensing my vexation. "Take watches. See if he comes back."

"Okay, but what if there were cameras in there that you just didn't see?" Iggy asked mildly. He was juggling M&M's with obnoxious accuracy. "He could know we're here. He could be waiting _us_ out."

I thought about it. If we camped out here and waited for him to come back, we were sitting ducks if somebody was watching us. I sighed. My back was aching from being hunched over for so long, and it was starting to get cold outside. "You're probably right. Let's take the train a couple of stops, find somewhere to settle down. We can come back tomorrow."

We got off the train when everybody else did, only because I assumed it meant we were in a busy, well-lit area, like a shopping plaza or a middle-class residential area. Imagine my surprise when the escalator dumped us in what looked like the most dangerous neighborhood this side of the Mississippi.

Once the crowd dispersed, we ambled cautiously into the street. Next to me, Iggy flinched. His head swiveled to our right and his hand found the sleeve of my jacket. "Gunshots," he muttered. "A mile east."

Lovely.

"Want to head back?" asked Fang quietly.

I sighed. We really didn't know where we were going. Our best bet was to walk around a bit, find somewhere relatively safe and hidden, and then pop open the laptop to search for a better place to spend the rest of our time.

"Let's just walk for a little," I suggested. "We're the apex predator here. We're bound to hit civilization at some point."

We walked down the sidewalk, passing abandoned buildings, half-destroyed chain link fences, and deserted parks. I'd forgotten how early the sun went down this far east—it was only seven o'clock, but it was pitch black outside. Even with perfect night vision, it was still a little freaky, I'll admit. I walked close to Iggy, waiting for him to notify us of any bumps in the night.

We eventually cut down a side street and finally found a relatively safe-looking area lined with shops and street vendors. The air was thick with the smell of various different meats.

"Oh, thank God," I breathed.

The Gasman's stomach rumbled behind me. Nudge giggled. "Me, too, Gazzy," she said. "Max, can we get something from these guys?"

My knee-jerk reaction was to say no, that we couldn't afford it, that we needed to strictly stick to dumpster diving and McDonald's, but then I thought of the stupid Visa gift card Fang had in his pocket and sighed, pulling off my boot and extracting the wad of cash I had there.

I selected a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Nudge. "Go ahead. Buy as much food as you can with this."

Nudge's already wide eyes widened further. "Seriously?"

Her shocked expression got a laugh out of me as I jammed my boot back on my foot. "Seriously. Go ahead." She grabbed Gazzy by the hand and raced away.

I surveyed the area as best as I could. It seemed fairly safe but was far too populated for us to just curl up and sleep somewhere. The idea of a hotel was looking more and more attractive—somewhere warm to lay down our heads, showers, complimentary continental breakfast…

Oh, another thing—Fang had popped into a CVS and checked the balance on the Visa card. Two thousand dollars.

Two. Thousand. Dollars.

How could we _not_ spend a few nights in a hotel?

Angel's squealing voice forced me from my daydream. "Oh, Max, look at the geese!"

Across from where the vendors were, there was a patch of grass with twenty or so geese grazing on it. I wondered, for a split second, why on earth they were still this far north—then I remembered how _warm_ it was for this time of year.

Most of them were finishing up preening before heading toward the tiny pond nearby. What a life. I'd never been so envious of a waterfowl before.

"I see them, sweetie," I said. Angel had a love for animals that I both admired and resented. "I think they're tired, though."

"Can I go over there?"

I eyed Nudge and Gazzy, not wanting to let them too far out of my sight. They were still oogling over the different selections available at the sausage stand. "I'd feel better if you stayed with me."

Angel looked up at me with those wide eyes. "Please, Max? I just want to look at them."

I turned to Fang, begging him to be the bad cop. Obviously, this was futile—Fang had less power over Angel than I did; he simply melted for her. "Go with her. I'll head over there," he said to me, tipping his head toward Gazzy and Nudge. "Iggy, you coming?"

Iggy looked unsettled. It had been over a year since he'd been surrounded by foreign stimuli—he was used to the gentle sounds of the forest, not the chaotic noise of the city. "I'm with you," he said, hooking a finger through my belt loop. "There's too much going on over there. I feel… I dunno… hyperaware."

Fang headed over to the vendors. Angel skipped toward the lake, leaving Iggy and I trailing behind her. I kept my eyes zeroed in on her golden curls.

Iggy hooked his finger around my belt loop again. When he spoke, his voice was small. "You really think this is the end?"

I sighed. Iggy wasn't one of the kids, so I didn't have to censor what I said. But he also wasn't _Fang_ , so I didn't feel like I could tell him _everything_ all the time. In this situation, though, I felt like I owed him the truth.

Angel walked over toward a small wooden bridge that connected the two riverbanks. Her hair rippled behind her in the breeze as she headed over, eyeing a gaggle of geese ripe with the cutest little baby geese.

"I don't know, Ig," I said honestly. "But I won't stop until this is all over. Until we're really _free_." I closed my eyes, tipped my head back, and let the autumn air wash over me. We were so close— _so_ close—and I was finally letting myself imagine what it would be like to not be _running_. To maybe find a home of some kind. A _real_ home. With four walls and a kitchen and bedrooms.

"None of us will," Iggy said quietly. I looked at him. "You know that, right?"

"Know what?"

"That we won't stop, either. That we're all right here with you."

For a moment, there was nothing but the breeze between us.

"I know you feel like all of this is on your shoulders, but we're all right behind you. I'll do anything for this all to be over. You're not alone. You might be the leader, yeah, but we're all just as ready to fight as you are."

I smiled and closed my eyes, admiring the echoes of the starlight on the back of my eyelids. For a split second, the world stopped spinning, the wind stopped blowing, and I was at peace. Then, just like that, it was gone in the wisps of northwestern wind and fallen maple leaves. I nudged Iggy with my shoulder. "Thanks, Ig. I needed to hear that."

When I finally pried my eyes open, I looked back over the park. The ground was littered with leaves and the shallow water of the pond rippled in the breeze. The geese had retreated from the shore and were settling in the water for the night. I smiled, looking for Angel.

Then I looked harder. Harder. Even harder.

A terrible sinking feeling took over every cell of my body. I took a staggering step forward, raking the horizon before me with a razor-sharp gaze.

 _Angel was gone_.

"Max?" Iggy asked.

"She's gone," I breathed in disbelief. "Iggy—Angel's _gone_."

* * *

 _A/N: Today, I learned that what I thought was perogative is spelled prerogative. Only took me two and a half decades._

 _I almost didn't post this today because 1) I'm a little behind in my writing trajectory for future chapters, and 2) I haven't reread/edited it nearly enough for it to be suitable to post. But the Patriots won the Super Bowl last night, so I'm in a bit of a joyous, sharing mood, despite the world trying to get me down._

 _Thanks for all the love! xo_


	13. THIRTEEN

THIRTEEN

" _Angel?_ " I raked my eyes across the park, around the lake, back to where the shops were, begging some nonexistent deity that I'd catch a glimpse of Angel's sunflower-blonde curls. My mind flashed to that dreadful day when she'd discovered she could breathe under water—but only after scaring the daylights out of the rest of us by disappearing under the waves.

Next to me, Iggy was frozen. "You _lost_ her?"

"I closed my eyes for two seconds!" I gasped. I was already hysterical. "And now she's gone!"

 _Oh, no, no, no, Jesus, no. Not this—anything but this—_

"Okay, yes, but _where did she go_?" Iggy demanded.

" _FANG!_ "

Maybe a hundred yards away at the line of food stands, Fang whirled at the sound of my voice. One look at my face and he immediately placed a hand on Nudge and the Gasman's shoulders, marching them toward Iggy and I.

I took off running over the bridge, searching the air for her scent. My new ability was totally was useless—I was too panicked and scatterbrained to do anything but operate on autopilot.

"Angel!" I screamed through my cupped hands. I cursed myself for letting her away from my side for even a second. I should've known better, I should've been _thinking_ —

"Max, what's going on?" Nudge called.

"Angel's gone," I gasped, "I can't find her—I was watching her, she was playing with the geese, and now I can't—"

" _GET AWAY FROM HER!_ "

Humor me for a second, friends. Let me ask you: has something ever completely stopped you in your tracks? Has something ever totally paralyzed you from head to toe, silenced every thought in your mind, stopped every single synapse from firing?

In case you've somehow forgotten, I've seen some shit in my day. Exhibit A: the first decade of my life. Exhibit B: those terrifying nightmare/memories that launched into my exploding brain last week. I've dealt with things you human folk could only imagine.

That said, it would be an understatement to say that it's hard to chill me to the bone. So when I tell you that Fang's coldblooded, murderous roar slicing through the night like a knife through warm butter fit the bill, that should hold some serious weight.

Listen. I've known Fang since infancy. We took our first flight together. Our first steps together, probably. He's the first person I ever sparred with, and his wrist was the first thing I ever broke. I've seen every single emotion that he's capable of. I've seen the tenderness he only ever showed around the Gasman and Angel when they were just babies. I've seen determination. I've seen sadness. I've seen fear. I've seen a wide spectrum of anger, raging from mildly irritated to explosively irate. Recently, I'd been on the receiving end of some special look meant for only _me_ that I hadn't quite figured out yet.

What this meant was that I knew pretty quickly that if Fang was making a sound like that, some serious shit was going down. This was something unprecedented. Dread unlike anything I'd ever experienced before filled me from head to toe.

I turned to him, but he was already streaking away from where he'd been standing with Nudge and Gazzy. I traced his trajectory down the dark street and saw his target: the outline of a large man in the shadows of an alley.

Then I noticed the smaller, skinnier, birdkid-shaped outline that he was pressing against the brick. The man had one of his giant hands wrapped over the mouth of the smaller figure.

It was my turn to roar. _"ANGEL!_ "

You know that mother bear protectiveness I always talk about? Here it was in full swing. I'm not a murderer. But this was different—this man was going to die.I broke into a sprint. I couldn't think, couldn't speak—I was on autopilot with a single goal: get to Angel.

I was only a few hundred yards from them, and with speed on my side, I made it to her long before the rest of the flock could. The thug, who had to have been Iggy's height but at least double his weight, had inched so close to her that he was essentially crushing her against the wall.

I froze in front of them, arms spread wide at my sides, wanting nothing more than to throw myself at this greasy, pathetic excuse of a human being. The rational part of me knew, though, that if I went storming headlong into this without thinking about it, Angel and I could both be at risk.

"If you move another muscle, I swear I'll break every bone in your body."

The thug tossed me an absent glance. Then he looked back and gave me a long, creepy up-down that I could've done without. "How you gonna do that, honey?"

Then, very pointedly, he raised his filthy hand to caress Angel's face. Her features twisted with immense, unbridled fear. Tears cut paths through the dirt on her cheeks. Every inch of her was bright red from trying to scream against his hand or flail away from him.

 _No more._

I launched myself at the guy with _just_ enough force to knock him off Angel. My lip collided with his shoulder and the familiar taste of coppery blood exploded in my mouth. I landed a powerful punch to his jaw—I felt it crack under my fist—but he used the momentum to trap me against the wall of the alley. I threw punches and kicks with expertise, but he only seemed to absorb them.

 _What the hell?_ Any normal human man, despite his size, should be an easy defeat for me. But running into him felt a lot like running into a slab of concrete.

I didn't have time to dwell on this too much—suddenly, his hand was clamped over _my_ mouth. Angel, who'd scurried back on her butt, was glaring over at us, as if she was going to try to save _me._

I tried to scream through his hand. _No, run, Angel, get away!_ but all that came out was, "Mmmmghfhfmm!" in a high-pitched, breathy squeal from somewhere in my larynx.

 _Run!_ I thought at her. Then I saw her expression: narrowed eyes, set jaw, solid stance— _she was trying to control him with her mind._

She'd just nearly been kidnapped or murdered or _something,_ and despite her trembling form and ear-splitting sobs, she was trying to scramble together her powers to free me.

 _Run!_ I thought again. _Angel, RUN!_

"I think I might like you better," the thug said to me. One of his hands found my hip below my t-shirt. I shivered and tried to jerk away, but it was no use. I may be stronger than most human men, but this guy had a hundred and fifty pounds on me _minimum—_ maybe even two hundred—and was using his entire body weight to keep me pinned to this brick wall. I thrashed unforgivingly regardless. I screamed against his hand again.

 _Is he an Eraser?_

Just over my attacker's shoulder, I spotted the angry, determined black blur that was Fang streaking toward us through the darkness. He was still just under one hundred yards away when the thug's hand slid up, up, up, dusting his grimy fingers along the skin that covered my ribcage.

I shrieked even harder and tried to land a kick, a knee, a fist, _anything_ , but this guy was seasoned—this wasn't his first alley attack, and it wouldn't be his last. He had me completely immobilized with another slight adjustment of his stance.

"Lots of curves, lots of edges." I growled and bit his hand hard. He laughed. "And feisty."

One of his hands slid up my side to the lining of my sports bra and then back down to where my hip met my pants to pinch the waistband of my jeans. I squeezed my eyes shut and searched my scattered mind feebly for an escape plan.

 _You sexist, misogynistic, evil, good-for-nothing piece of crap,_ was all I could come up with as I squirmed wildly in his grip. _I hope you die, I hope you_ suffer _and then_ die, _I hope somebody cuts off your—_

My eyes snapped open at the sound of Fang's howl. That's the only word I can use to describe it—a _howl_. Everything happened very quickly, then: the thug was suddenly midair. In the next moment, his body was crashing against the opposite wall like a dead weight. I heard the satisfying _smack_ of his skull against the brick.

That was all it took. The momentum of a sprint, Fang's hard body, and blinding rage. I fought back the jarring insecurity that I was an incompetent leader.

Yeah, let's table that one for later.

Fang turned back to me, eyes wide, face a riot of emotions, not one of them good. I gave him my best _I'm okay_ look and he immediately knelt next to Angel, looking more shaken than I'd seen him in years.

"Did he hurt you?" His voice was gruff and harsh, but his eyes were wide.

Angel was absolutely inconsolable. She forced out a few unintelligible syllables as she shook her head. Fang put his hands on her shoulders, tugged the sleeves of her blouse back into place, and looked her up and down.

Behind us, I heard the beginnings of a crowd starting to form. Then there was Nudge's voice, talking about the film class her high school was making her take, and how Iggy was the writer of the script and she was directing, and she _really_ needed this grade, so if they could let us finish that'd be great, etc, etc.

Get this—the idiotic passerby were nodding in empathy and understanding. Crisis averted.

Once I snapped out of whatever state of shock I'd been in, I dropped next to Angel and wrapped myself around her. She buried her head into my shirt, trembling.

"I was so _afraid,_ " she managed before dissolving back into hysterics.

Fang and I certainly had no problem figuring out what our resident creeper had been planning on doing. Behind me, Fang landed a few more satisfying punches. The thug moaned lowly in the way that only a man dancing the fine line of unconsciousness could. This earned him a kick between the legs from Fang.

"You're a creep," Fang spat. "You're lucky I don't kill you. If I ever see your face again, I'll show no mercy." Then he literally _spat_ _on_ the guy.

"Fang," I managed. Fang looked at me, eyes wild. "Check the back of his neck—I think he might be an Eraser."

Fang's face swapped from one of ire to one of interest as he flipped the guy's collar over. With a grim face, he pointed to what he saw there—a date a week from today.

I felt my heart drop. So he _was_ an Eraser. Slated to expire next week. We both knew what this meant: they knew we were here.

They'd found us.

An eerie silence only interrupted by Angel's desperate sobs fell over us. It was balmy outside for December, but all of a sudden I was shivering.

Fang knelt next to me, eyeing Angel with a look of fury that could melt tungsten. "Angel, what were you _doing?_ "

Somehow, Angel cried even harder. "One of the baby geese came over here, so I f-followed him, because I thought he was l-lost." Then, she positively _wailed,_ "I'm _sorry!_ "

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Fang said sternly. "You know better than that! We stick together. In _groups_. Nobody wanders off!"

I knew this part of Fang; I'd seen it on the beach when I'd tried to cut the chip out. This was how he dealt with fear for the life of somebody he loved: he got angry, placed blame, and shut out the world.

"Fang," I started weakly, but he cut me off.

"No! She needs to understand. You're not a little kid anymore, Angel. You need to think before you do things like this!" He threw his hands in the air in immense frustration. "You're smarter than that, Angel."

" _Fang_!" I turned to face him, offering him a pleading glance. "Enough."

Angel cried even harder at his words. I think he took the hint after that—he didn't speak for several minutes, although I could still feel the anger rolling off him.

Angel was babbling one long, run-on apology. My body was still in fight-or-flight mode, so all I could bring myself to do was hold her even tighter and mutter, "Shh, shh," into her hair.

"Aaaaand _CUT!_ " Nudge yelled dramatically from the end of the alleyway. "Great rehearsal! I liked the dedication, _Nick_ , but save something for shoot day, yeah?" She eyed the Eraser. "You okay, Mike?"

Silence.

She kicked Gazzy in the shin.

"Oh, yeah!" Gazzy said, throwing a deep, scratchy voice. "Just peachy. Tired. Leg day, you know. I'll get up in a minute."

"Nothing to see here, folks," Iggy said, waving his arms vaguely. "Film Week is next month at BC High. If you want to see any more, you'll have to pay for it."

"Ten dollars at the door!" Nudge crowed as they retreated. "Five if you say Tiffany-Krystal sent you!"

The crowd dispersed and the rest of the flock flooded into the alleyway. Over Angel's shoulder, I watched as they appraised my tear-coated face, Fang's enraged expression, and the mutilated body of the Eraser-thug crumpled in the corner. The Gasman was wide-eyed and staring at us over the mountain of sausages and hotdogs piled in his arms.

"Everything's fine," I said shakily, more for myself than anyone else. "We're fine."

"Eraser," Fang said, toeing the body with his boot. "They know we're here. Need to lie low."

Angel's sobs slowly dissolved into hiccups. I could sense she was embarrassed—she wouldn't pull her head from my shoulder. I rubbed her back. _It's okay, chickadee,_ I thought as gently as I could at her. _Everything's okay. I love you._

"Angel?" Gazzy said after a while, looking completely terrified. "Are… are you okay?"

Angel turned from me and threw herself at her brother. Nudge scrambled to extract the food from his arms. I leaned back onto my haunches, took a few steeling breaths, and willed myself not to descend into insanity.

Iggy looked confused, but I couldn't bring myself to say out loud what had just happened. Nudge and Gazzy, who could obviously put two and two together based on what they were seeing, would debrief him later.

Despite his confusion, Iggy was nothing if not perceptive. Clearly sensing that I needed to have a… _discussion_ with Fang, he spoke gently. "Come on, Angel. Let's go get some ice cream."

Angel sniffled and nodded, taking his hand. Gazzy and Nudge followed them, nearly on top of each other, looking nervous.

"Stay together," I ordered. "And stay close."

I eyed Iggy's white-knuckled grip on Angel's hand and let myself breathe.

When they were out of earshot, Fang reached down and pulled me to my feet. His face was tight, his mouth set in a thin line.

"Are you alright?" Fang asked. He needed to break something, I could tell. I added _find a tree trunk for Fang to decimate_ to my ever-growing to-do list.

I nodded and leaned back against the wall of the alley, trying to force the panic out of me. Fang took my hand again and led me out of the alley and back to the street where the vendors were. Then he sat me down on a bench, tucked his windbreaker around my shoulders, and waited.

After I took a minute to pull myself together, Fang said, "You're sure you're fine?"

"Jesus, Fang, this has nothing to do with me."

"It has _everything_ to do with you," he snapped. His eyes blazed like the black smoke from a volcano. "I saw his hands on you."

"I'm fine," I snapped back. "Angel's only eight—imagine what he was planning to do with her. I barely even made it in time." _We could've lost her. They could've hurt her, or killed her, or worse._ The white-hot clutches of fear gripped at my windpipe and I swallowed down a sob. "That guy was huge. I've never seen an Eraser that big. If you didn't show up, we were toast."

"Might not have even been an Eraser," Fang said. He leaned forward and used the corner of his shirt to dab at my bloody lip. "Could be something totally new, something we've never seen."

Well, I wasn't sure if I could deal with that.

Fang sat next to me, silent and unmoving, as I considered this. When I finally looked at him, I frowned.

"I know she scared you, but you were way out of line."

This didn't seem to be what he was expecting me to say. " _Out of line_?" he said in disbelief. "She's eight years old, Max! She knows how dangerous it is to wander off!"

"You can't yell at her like that, Fang! You don't understand—it's _scary_ when you yell like that."

Hilariously, this surprised him. As if he couldn't hear the lethal tone in his own voice. Maybe he couldn't.

"It was my fault," I said. My voice was a defeated whisper. I wiped my cheeks, knowing I had to look like a train wreck. " _I_ was supposed to be watching her, _I_ let my guard down, _I'm_ the one you should be mad at."

Fang's voice was soft when he spoke. "Don't do that. You can't babysit them all all the time. Remember when we were that age? We had to be accountable."

" _They_ are not _us._ Me, you and Iggy had to make do with the circumstances we had. But for them, it was _different._ Somehow, they've managed to keep a _tiny_ bit of normalcy—they were allowed to be _kids."_

"Okay, so?" Fang challenged. "Things have changed. Time to grow up."

"It doesn't just work that way! They're still learning!"

Fang growled in frustration. "They need to pull their own weight. It's nice that you want to maintain their innocence. I really wish we could. But these next few days, maybe weeks, maybe the rest of our lives—it's all going to be this tough."

I shook my head. He was making sense—I knew that—but for some reason, I couldn't budge on this. The kids were the kids. That was that.

"Listen," said Fang, but I cut him off.

"It's getting late. We need to settle in somewhere. And I think after today, we could all use a warm bed and a shower. Let's find a cheap motel and crash."

Fang eyed me for a long, hard moment before nodding. "You're in charge."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the flock was ecstatic at the idea of sleeping in real beds and, you know, _bathing._ It hadn't been that long since we'd left Arizona, but still, when you've been living most of your life in different forests and deserts, shelter is _always_ something to celebrate.

We got the cheapest, smallest motel room we could manage. Which meant two double beds, one bathroom, and barely any floor space. After we all took long, hot showers, Gazzy and Iggy managed to fit in one bed, while Nudge and Angel curled up in the other one.

This meant that Fang and I got to share the infinitesimal space on the floor between the door and the girls' bed, right by the heater. Which would not shut off or stop blasting skin-melting heat despite the fifty-degree weather outside.

I wore one of Iggy's t-shirts—he was so tall that it fell to just above my kneecaps. Since it was too warm for much else, so I just wrapped the sheet around my waist. After a lifetime together, there wasn't much to be shy about when it came to the flock. Fang stripped down to just a pair of mesh basketball shorts and kicked off the sheet entirely. The two of us lay side by side, not saying anything, listening as the flock fell asleep. One of Angel's hands dangled off the bed and was limp next to where Fang was resting his head. I'd taken extra long tucking her in.

"Made it through another day," Fang said once everyone's breathing had evened out.

I grunted in response. _Barely_.

"Thanks to our fearless leader," he added.

This almost brought tears to my eyes. "Yeah, the fearless leader that almost broke into an apartment probably full of Erasers, that couldn't think of a backstory back at that school, that almost got Angel killed—"

I felt Fang's eyes on me. "So what? We're a team. We always have been. You can't possibly always think of the exact right thing to do. You know how to guide us. That's what matters."

Somehow, this wasn't comforting in the slightest. I shook my head and turned to face the other direction, ready for this day to be over.

"Max, if you want to talk about what happened earlier—"

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine. And I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

He had nothing to say to that.

After about fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, I was just on the cusp of sleep when Angel's sweet voice broke the silence.

"Fang?" she whispered.

There was a pause, but then Fang's voice, husky with sleep, responded. "Yeah?"

Angel took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was thick with tears. "I'm really sorry about earlier."

Fang didn't say anything.

"I won't do it ever again, I promise."

More silence.

"Please don't hate me," she managed.

I cracked open an eye to see Fang sitting up. He scooted over toward the bed and wrapped an arm around Angel's shoulder. She turned and cried into his chest. He rubbed her back with one hand.

"Of course I don't hate you, Angel," Fang said in his soft, musical voice. "You scared me. I thought I was too late."

"You don't _get_ scared," Angel said.

"Today I was."

"I'm okay," she said. "I'm tough."

Fang ruffled her curls. "I know you are."

"Max was really upset," she said guiltily.

"She was," Fang agreed. He sounded like he wanted to say something more but refrained.

"Is she mad at me?"

"No," Fang said. Then he poked her in the side. "How could she be? We all know you're her favorite."

Angel giggled and sniffled a bit. Her tears seemed to have subsided. "Maybe I used to be," she said slyly.

Fang stopped moving. As if against his will, his head turned marginally to one side, like a confused dog. He didn't say anything.

"Oh, come _on_ , Fang," Angel goaded.

Fang sighed and shook his head. "You should sleep. It's been a long day. And we're hitting the ground running tomorrow."

Angel eyed him and shrugged before laying back down. I flipped back over to the other side, trying to feign sleep, hoping I was being convincing.

 _Don't worry, Max. Fang doesn't know you're awake,_ Angel said in my head.

 _Go to sleep, sweetie,_ I thought back. _Fang's right. Busy day tomorrow._

 _He's staring at you. He thinks you look hot._

I flushed from head to toe. Miraculously, I couldn't recall a time that I'd wanted to die more than I did right then. Oh, God.

 _Enough! Get_ out _of his head, Angel!_

She giggled in my head. _It's just so_ loud _._

"Angel, get _out_ of his head!" I hissed. In that moment, I could've breathed fire.

Next to me, Fang went rigid. " _What?_ "

"Nothing!" Angel squeaked under her breath.

" _No,_ not _nothing—_ Fang, aren't you supposed to be able to block her out or something?"

To that day, I'd never seen Fang blush. But when that warmth hit his cheeks, the rest of his face glowed, and it triggered something in me that I had no time or patience to figure out.

"It's okay, Max. It's just—"

" _Angel_!" As my whispering got angrier, my voice got quieter. "Good. _Night_!"

Angel shut her mouth. Unable to look at Fang, I rolled over and punched my pillow into a different shape.

Then I noticed the sheet was at my ankles. And with the way I was positioned, my butt was sticking out, clad in nothing but a pair of red undies.

And probably had been for the last half hour.

I was mortified. This had been a terrible day in a string of exceedingly terrible days. Forcing back a scream, I yanked the sheet back up and closed my eyes, swearing not to open them again until morning.

 _Max?_ said Angel innocently in my head.

Oh, my God, I could kill her. _Bed time. Good night. No more talking._

 _Okay,_ she sighed in a defeated voice. _I just—I never knew Fang's favorite color was red._


	14. FOURTEEN

FOURTEEN

When I woke up, I was _freezing._ Not totally unusual for me, of course—we've already discussed that I have an issue with thermoregulation—so for a split second, I just chalked it up to the cold weather, the wind, and the fact that we were sleeping outside. Then I remembered that we were, in fact, _not_ sleeping outside. We were sleeping in a motel with the thermostat set to _depths of hell_.

The alarm bells in my head started ringing at top pitch. My eyes flew open and squinted against the dark. It couldn't have been later than five in the morning. We were still in the motel, safe and sound. So why was I so _cold_?

The heater next to me was no longer blasting, and a throw blanket had been tucked around me. I frowned. I hadn't fallen asleep with a blanket. In fact, I distinctly remembered falling asleep with just a sheet, which had only been for modesty purposes.

Cue the onslaught of memories from last night. I groaned and burrowed closer into the pillow at my side. Oh, God, that had been embarrassing.

 _Note to self: wear a full sweatsuit to bed from now on_.

As I slowly became a bit more conscious, it became evident that I wouldn't be falling back asleep. I sighed and prepared for at least two hours of tossing and turning while I allowed the rest of the flock to get the rest they deserved. Running around this early wasn't going to benefit anyone.

When I was finally a bit more coherent and aware of my surroundings, I forced my eyes open to seek out Angel and make sure she was 1) alive and 2) getting some sleep. This time, as my vision adjusted, I became acutely aware that the _pillow_ I had burrowed into was warm and smelled very distinctly like something—or _someone_ — _very_ familiar.

It was also shirtless.

How can a pillow be shirtless, you might ask? Well, faithful reader, that's because it wasn't a pillow at all. It was _Fang_.

He was asleep on his stomach with his head turned away from me. And at some point in the night, my frigid self had apparently decided that it was okay to exchange my dignity for a heat source. My forehead was warm from where I'd slept with it pressed against his shoulder, and I'd shoved my knees against his bare thigh where his shorts had ridden up.

All of this information slammed to the front of my mind at once like a twelve-car pileup on the interstate. I flailed away from him in what was probably one of the least graceful things I've ever done in my life. Only when I jumped to my feet did I remember that I was only wearing one of Iggy's giant t-shirts and a pair of crimson underwear. Scrambling, I picked up the blanket and held it up to my front, wondering how any of this could possibly be at the forefront of my mind when we had a so many other bigger, eviller fish to fry.

Adolescence. Nobody gets out unscathed.

A snicker came from the boys' bed at the far end of the room. Then Iggy, sleepswept but wide awake, popped up on one elbow. A wicked smile split his face from corner to corner.

"I was waiting for one of you to wake up," he whispered. "God, all this time I was hoping I'd be spared by the sexual tension, but I can _hear_ you sleeping all cuddled up together." He made a retching sound. "Oh, man, I'm going to be sick— _hey_!"

He dodged the pillow I'd chucked with perfect accuracy.

"When I want your opinion, I'll _ask_ for it," I hissed. "And trust me— _don't_ hold your breath on that one."

"Everything alright?"

I jumped about a foot in the air at Fang's rusty voice. He'd turned and was eyeing me from the floor, looking alert despite the fact that he'd just woken up.

"Oh, just ducky," whispered Iggy in a teasing voice. "Max was just—"

"—saying how _cold it is in here_ ," I said through gritted teeth, speaking over Iggy. "What happened? I went to sleep overheating, now it's _freezing_."

Fang's dark eyes didn't stray from mine. "I woke up in the middle of the night and tried it again. It shut off. I figured you'd be cold." He jerked his chin in the direction of the blanket, as if to say, _You're welcome._

My heart did that stupid, idiotic, schoolgirl a-fluttering again. I clenched my jaw. My first instinct was to snap at him, be angry—you know, something irrational. But in reality, all he'd done was look out for me. No ulterior motives, nothing to get worked up over: he was my best friend, he knew me well, and he had tossed me a throw blanket while I was asleep.

The more I paid attention to my first instincts, the more I was realizing what a quick trigger finger I had. Emotionally, that is.

"Oh, _Fang_ ," Iggy gushed. One of his hands found his heart. "How considerate! What a _gentleman_ you are—"

Oh, he was _dead_. I balled up the blanket and tossed it across the room at Iggy, hitting him in the face this time. Then I wrestled a pair of jeans out of my backpack and tugged them on before crossing the room.

Iggy's face changed from one of mirth to confusion. "What are you doing?" he asked. He scooched back against the musty headboard. Next to him, the Gasman made his first signs of life.

"Huh?" Gazzy murmured against his pillow. Eyes still shut, he lifted his head up. "Wha's going on?"

I launched myself onto the bed at Iggy. Iggy tried feebly to roll out of the way; when he failed, he laughed again, loudly this time.

I grabbed the pillow I'd tossed at him and shoved it over his head. "I'll make you regret you were ever born."

"Is Max trying to kill Iggy?" said Nudge groggily from behind me.

"Mmmmfgh," Iggy intoned against the pillow.

I released some pressure on the pillow. "Try again."

"I _said_ , two can play at this game."

I had a half a second to process this when Iggy was thrashing beneath me. I held my position and shoved the pillow back over his face, more forcefully this time. "If you don't keep your mouth shut, the rest of your life will be a living hell."

I pulled the pillow away. Iggy sucked in a giant breath of air. "Alright, alright, alright!"

I wasted a glare on him. "Don't forget that I can still kick your ass."

"Yeah, yeah," Iggy said, shoving me off him. He sat up against the headboard and eyed me with creepy accuracy as I trudged back to the other side of the room. "Christ almighty," he muttered.

"Hostile this morning, are we?" Fang said with a pointed look in my direction.

"Can it," I spat.

With my plan to let the kids sleep totally foiled, we headed back to Goodchurch's apartment bright and early. Fang and I did not speak, interact, or even make eye contact for the entirety of the way there. Angel, being eight years old and blissfully unaware of the joy of hormones, hopped around like her typical bubbly self, completely immune to the tension she'd caused.

After an hour of waiting around, a man with a baseball cap and sunglasses strolled by about ten feet in front of us. He was walking a golden retriever, stopping every so often to let the dog sniff around.

I smacked Fang probably too hard on the shoulder. Fang followed my gaze and his eyes widened a fraction. Any weirdness from yesterday instantly evaporated.

"That's him," he said with a nod. "Definitely."

Fang's memory is one of those things that I've never once doubted. It's an absolute truth. One plus one is two, up is up and down is down, and Fang remembers every single thing he's ever seen, heard, or done in his entire life. Nobody knows why.

Fang and I stood and walked slowly behind Goodchurch. He nervously looked left and right, clearly paranoid, but didn't happen to look _behind_ him.

His dog, however, _did._

"Whoa, Jack," Goodchurch said lowly, pulling gently on the dog's leash. Jack pulled right back, running toward Fang and I with a wagging tail. I pasted a smile on my face and knelt, petting the dog behind his ears.

Jack, however, was far more interested in Fang. He launched himself at Fang, standing up on his hind legs and placing his front paws on Fang's thighs. Fang, uncharacteristically startled, took a couple of stumbling steps back before steadying himself and eyeing the dog warily.

"What a good boy," I cooed. Fang glared at me. Jack, however, hit me with the classic we-just-met-but-I-love-you-unconditionally look. It caught me weirdly off-guard.

Goodchurch looked twitchy but gave a half-smile back. "This is Jack."

"Jack," I repeated. The dog wagged his tail even harder and galloped over to me. His tongue lolled out of one side of his mouth as he appraised me happily. "Hi, Jack."

"Okay, Jack," Goodchurch said anxiously, pulling on the leash. "Let's go, buddy."

"Actually," I said, standing back up, "I was wondering if we could ask you a few—"

Goodchurch's eyes widened. Without hesitating, he dropped Jack's leash, turned, and sprinted down the sidewalk.

It only took me about a half-second to shake off my shock, but that was enough time for Fang to chase after him, grab him by the shoulders, and tackle him against the trunk of an oak tree.

"Just a few questions, _Gideon_ ," Fang said lethally. Jack was barking excitedly at his feet. "About Vector."

"I—I don't know anything, I swear to you," Goodchurch choked out. He looked absolutely terrified.

Fang pushed his elbow a bit tighter against Goodchurch's neck. "How sure are you about that?"

"I—I'm positive," Goodchurch wheezed.

"So positive that you'd bet your life on it?"

"Fang." I tugged on Fang's arm. "Back off a little."

Fang glanced down at his death grip and, looking a little surprised, released some pressure.

"Fang?" Goodchurch said questioningly. Then he looked at me and back to Fang as a horrified look of understanding dawned on his face. "Oh, no…"

"'Oh, no?'" I demanded. "What do you mean, 'oh, no?'"

"You're… you're the hybrids," Goodchurch said breathlessly. "You're alive."

"Surprise," I snapped sarcastically.

"I assumed he'd already gotten you," he said urgently. "You shouldn't be here. You need to get out of here, it isn't safe—"

"'He?'" I said. "Who's 'he?'"

"I can't—I can't say any more—please—"

Fang used the arm that wasn't strangling our prisoner to drive a bark-shattering punch into the tree next to Goodchurch's head. "Think a little bit harder." The man flinched and whimpered.

Well, that checked _find a tree trunk for Fang to decimate_ off the to-do list.

"Explain," Fang demanded.

Goodchurch shook his head. Something about him seemed sincere; I wondered where that observation fit in with the rest of this ridiculous picture. "If they find out you're here, they'll capture you. Or kill you."

"Who's 'they?'" I growled. "Vector? Your company? Let me guess—if we let you go, you'll run back to your headquarters and tell them exactly where we are?"

Goodchurch's eyes widened. He shook his head again, wildly this time. "No—you don't understand. I'm not in charge there anymore."

I snorted. "We may be rough around the edges, _Gideon_ , but we aren't _stupid_. We know your story. The golden boy from the slums who developed a company in honor of his mother and created us for his own sick, twisted fascination—"

"No!" he cried. "No, no—you have to believe me—I was overthrown years ago—when he took over, he turned it into a multinational conglomerate, but he wants it all hush-hush—he swore me to secrecy, told me I had to pretend I'm still in charge!"

Uh, _what?_

Fang and I exchanged a look of confusion. None of this made any sense. My brain felt close to exploding.

"Angel?"

The rest of the flock slinked forward from where they'd gathered behind a clump of trees. Angel took a few steps forward.

"What's he thinking?"

Angel stared at Goodchurch for several moments. She cocked her head to the side and frowned. "He's telling the truth. But he's really scared. They've been blackmailing him. The guy who's in charge is really evil." Then she looked at Fang. "He can't really breathe, you know."

Fang released Goodchurch completely from his grasp. "Run, and I'll make you wish you didn't," he promised.

Goodchurch rubbed a hand over his neck, looking equal parts relieved and terrified. "I swear, I'm telling you the truth," he said. He glanced nervously about again. "They have eyes _everywhere_. The boss—he'll stop at nothing to have total control, total power."

"Over what?"

"Over _everything_ ," Goodchurch said emphatically. "I told you—it's a conglomerate now. I developed this company to do good, to help people, and he's turned it into something dangerous, insidious, and there was nothing I could do. When he found out about you, he became obsessed with finding you, with running more experiments, with creating more of you. Or, if he couldn't contain you—eliminating you."

I looked back to Angel immediately. She nodded. "Still telling the truth."

"Holy shit," Iggy said. "This is, like, some _extra-level_ evil we're talking about, here."

"I shouldn't be talking to you," Goodchurch said. He glanced around again in a panic. "They're always watching. I've said _way_ too much. Please, I have to go."

"I need more information. Anything that you can tell me. We can protect you."

He shook his head vigorously. "You don't understand! _Nobody_ can protect me, can protect _any_ of us. Not from him. He's got the police in his pocket, the FBI—you have no idea how many people he's hurt to keep everything hush-hush—"

Fang shoved him back against the tree trunk. "More. Information."

"I haven't been in charge there since 2004," Goodchurch said lowly. His voice was trembling so much he was difficult to understand. "To the whole world, I'm still the CEO. Only his direct employees know he's running the show. He's killed so many of them that anyone who's left is terrified to speak out about what he's doing, what he's done. And if they ever do, I'll have to publicly counter it as the CEO, or he'll kill my mother and sisters." His eyes jumped between all of us. "Please—you need to let me go—nothing can happen to my family. _Please_."

"I need a name."

Goodchurch shook his head. "I can't." Fang shoved his forearm against Goodchurch's trachea again. Tears sprung to Goodchurch's eyes. He started to hyperventilate. " _Please!_ You have to understand—my _family—_ "

"Let him go," I told Fang. Fang hesitated, looking like he wanted to defy me. " _Fang_."

Fang dropped him.

"An address, at least," I said. Goodchurch continued to shake his head no. His anxiety was rubbing off on me—it was obvious that this man wasn't lying to us, that he was truly _terrified_ down to his bones.

"Gideon," I said softly, "I _know_ you're a good person. I _know_ you're looking out for your family. But we're here to take him down, to end this for _everyone_ involved, and I can't do that if you don't give me anything to work with. If you tell me where to find him, you can live a normal life. Without fear."

Goodchurch leaned around Fang and peered down the street, into the trees, back through the park. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling something out as inconspicuously as he could.

He pressed the piece of paper into my hand while crying, "I won't tell you anything! Stay away from me!" With that, he retreated down the street.

Fang looked ready to take off after him. I held up a hand and unfolded the sheet of paper.

 _Marion Rodgers_

 _Back Bay_

 _Tell her Gid sent you_

Wordlessly, I held the paper up to Fang. "Can't be our head honcho," he said. "Goodchurch kept saying _he._ "

I shrugged. "Guess we'll find out."

I read the paper off to the rest of the flock. Iggy groaned. " _Another_ person we have to hunt down?"

"What's Back Bay?" Nudge asked.

"Part of Boston. It's big, covers a lot of area," Fang said.

"So we have no idea how to find her?"

Fang shrugged. "Phonebook?"

* * *

We went back to the thrift shop. But _this_ time, we _bought_ the goddamn phonebook.

Before cracking it open, we made the hike to Back Bay. The fun thing about Boston is that, like New York City, it's full of fun little neighborhoods. However, _unlike_ New York City, Boston does not have a grid system, so it's nearly impossible to freaking navigate. One hour and several curse words later, we were in a very busy, populated area of Beantown.

It had started to rain about halfway through our trip. The balmy, fifty-degree weather had since passed; now it was barely above freezing and so windy that it was essentially raining sideways.

"Max," Gazzy said. When I turned, he was wordlessly pointing to a sign that said _Boston Public Library._

We piled into the library, soaked to the bone and freezing cold. Once we found a table that was relatively isolated, Fang cracked open his laptop. He and Nudge peered over it while Gazzy and I went line-by-line through the yellow pages. Angel and Iggy were our lookouts.

"There's no Marion Rodgers in here," I said after twenty long minutes of searching. I dumped my head onto the phonebook, silently counting to ten, forcing myself to stop overheating from frustration. It was really starting to feel like one step forward, fifty _thousand_ steps back.

"Can't find anything here, either."

"Hang on," Nudge said. "Try Googling her name with Gideon Goodchurch."

Fang typed quickly and then hit enter. Then he looked at Nudge with surprise.

"'Billionaire Gideon Goodchurch Suits Up as Best Man,'" Nudge read. "Click it!"

I leaned over Fang's shoulder again. The article discussed in detail how Goodchurch stood beside his best friend, Silas Scythe, at his wedding. The bride? Marion Scythe.

"Got to be her, right?" I asked. Fang nodded. "Rodgers must be her maiden name."

"Why did he write her maiden name down, then?" Nudge asked.

"Maybe they got divorced," Iggy said.

Fang opened a new tab and Googled _Marion Scythe_. The first thing that popped up was the Whitepages.

I prepared myself for a defeat. The Whitepages had been useless in hunting down Gideon Goodchurch. Just as I opened my mouth to tell Fang to pack up so we could go wandering around Back Bay, Nudge gasped.

"Wait! Marion Scythe, Atlantic Apartments, Back Bay, Boston," she read hurriedly. "Look—here's an address!"

Fang pulled a sticky note off the desk and copied the address down in his slanted handwriting. Then, he plugged it into Google maps.

"Ten minute walk away," he said. He met my eyes. My call.

No-brainer. "Let's go."

We piled out of the library and back into the elements. The rain seemed to have died down a bit in intensity, which truly wasn't saying much. I eyed Nudge's Top-Siders and sighed; she'd need a new pair of shoes soon. I couldn't even remember what number that was on my to-do list.

My head was starting to ache again, but I couldn't tell in what way. I'd been crossing my fingers that since removing the chip had removed the Voice, it had also removed the recurring brain explosions I'd been having, but there was no way to know for sure. I rubbed my forehead and bit back another sigh. Fang was watching me, I knew, and I didn't have time to deal with his antics right now.

The address Fang and Nudge had found turned out to be one of the richy-richest areas of Boston that we'd seen so far. We found ourselves in front of a three-story brownstone in a row of about a million other identical brownstones.

When I knocked on the door, a middle-aged woman opened it. She was about Dr. Martinez's height and had orange-brown eyes. Deep bags sat under them. She looked absolutely exhausted in more ways than one.

She also looked definitively _not_ like an evil, blackmailing, murderous CEO. But I'd been deceived by looks too many times to let down my guard.

"Marion Rodgers?"

"Hi, kids," she said, taking in our soggy clothes and ragged appearance. "Are you selling magazines?"

Behind me, Iggy snorted and muttered, "Not quite." I kicked him in the shin.

"We're actually here to ask you some questions. About a company called Vector?"

Marion's face immediately transformed from one of confusion to one of fear. Without hesitating, she reached back to slam the door shut with force.

"Wait!" I edged my way halfway through the doorway, grimacing when the doorknob slammed into my hip. "Wait, wait," I begged. "Gid sent us."

There was a brief pause. Then, ever so slowly, the door opened all the way again. Marion stepped forward so only her eyes, rusty and sad, blinked back from the shadows. "Gid who?"

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. As if this lady knew more than one Gid _._ "Goodchurch."

Her eyes were hard and revealed nothing, but I knew that look—she was deciding whether or not to talk to us. To trust us with some dark part of herself that most people didn't know.

"How do you know Gideon?"

"We're… connected to the company," I said vaguely. "We didn't know Gideon had been… overthrown. We want to take down the new person in charge."

She stared at me blankly. A laugh that seemed half-bitter and half-nervous fell from her lips. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, obviously unsure of what to say.

"And what did Gideon say I could help you with?"

"He seemed to think you may have some answers for us."

"Did he?" she asked bitterly. She barked out another odd laugh. "God, I'll kill him…"

"Listen," I said harshly, taking a step closer to her. She shrank against the wall under my height. "If you cooperate, this will be _much_ easier for you."

A look of understanding crossed her face. "Hang on—do you think _I'm_ in charge?" This time, when she laughed, it was genuine. "What on earth did Gideon tell you?"

"Not enough for me to trust you."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that he misled you if he implied that I have anything to do with any of this."

Next to me, Angel tugged on my shirt. "She's telling the truth."

Marion shot a look of confusion at Angel but didn't say anything.

"What do you know about the head of the company?" I demanded.

There was a moment of silence. I looked to Angel again, who narrowed her eyes. "Now I can't hear anything."

Marion's eyes were wide. "What are you doing?"

"You should tell me what you know," Angel said in a strange voice. For a split second, Marion looked like she was under Angel's spell, but with a shake of her head, it was gone.

"Is she—are you—?" Marion choked out. She backed further into her apartment with a horrified look on her face.

I called Angel off. I suspected that the more we scared this woman, the less eager she'd be to dish out valuable information.

But Marion's face had transformed into one of wonder. She sucked a quick breath in between her lips; a quiet whistle rang through the air. "Oh, no. I know exactly who you are," she breathed.

My stomach twisted. "And who's that?"

"The human-avian hybrids. The angel experiment kids."

 _No, no, no._ Left and right, we were finding more people that knew about us. How did this lady tie into Goodchurch and Vector? How did she know who we _were?_

I advanced on her again. Marion stagger-stepped backward. Behind me, Fang and Iggy stepped forward and shoved the younger kids protectively behind them.

"And why would you say _that_?" I forced out, hoping she couldn't hear my heart positively thundering in my chest.

"Because my ex-husband is Silas Scythe," she said.

 _Who cares?_ "What does _that_ have to do with this?"

"Everything," she said with a defeated little sigh as she hung her head. "Because he's the guy you're looking for. He's the CEO of Vector."


	15. FIFTEEN

FIFTEEN

After dropping that bomb on us, Marion Rodgers invited us into her kitchen and, like the upper-class debutante that she was, made tea for all of us. Like, _I used to be madly in love with the man who's trying to imprison you!_ _C'mon, kiddos! How about a cuppa?_

It was laughable, really, on a number of levels—maybe the most significant being that I don't think any of us had ever had tea before. Gazzy took a sip of it black and nearly vomited all over the table.

"Here," Marion said with a smile, offering him the milk and sugar. Gazzy dumped significant amounts of both into his drink and then slurped it up happily. Nudge made a face of disgust at his antics before daintily lifting her cup with her pinky finger in the air.

"How do you know Silas?" Fang asked from the end of the table. He spoke softly, but his tone and gaze were intense. I saw Marion flinch.

"College," she said with a little angry sigh. "He was every girl's dream—intelligent, handsome, athletic. Salutatorian of his graduating class in high school. Gideon was valedictorian."

I thought back to Iggy and Fang's fight in the cave what felt like a million years ago—boys will be boys. And boys will be _competitive,_ no matter how brotherly.

"That's where the rivalry started?" I asked.

She took the last sip of her tea and shook her head. "It was _always_ a competition for Silas, since they were kids. Gideon has no idea, but Silas always resented him. Still does. Don't get me wrong—Silas was good at everything when they were kids. I've seen all the yearbooks. It was just that… Gid was better."

"In what way?"

Behind us, the kettle was beginning to scream; I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Next to me, Fang went rigid. I watched his eyes dart around the kitchen—mapping an exit route, like always. Reliable, that one.

Marion laughed bitterly, totally ignorant to our panicked reactions. "Oh, God. _Every_ way. Or so Silas says. Gid was captain of the cross country team. The hockey team. Captain of the crew team. Undoubtedly the smartest one on the scholastic decathlon team. Silas was always there beside him, but he was always runner up."

"How did they get from there to here?" I asked.

Marion stood and took the kettle off the stove, pouring the last two cups, another one for herself and one for me. "What do you mean?" Then she paused. "Milk and sugar?"

"Whatever you're having," I said off-handedly. "I guess I mean… how did we go from friendship rivalry to this? To blackmailing him, taking over his highly successful company, threatening his life and the lives of those he cares about…"

She sighed again as she sat back down. I took the burning cup and held it to my lips, inhaling the warm steam and letting it trickle down the back of my throat. A moment of peace in a lifetime of clusterfuckocity.

"Silas and I got married young. Right after Gideon started the business. Everything was great for a while. Then I started to pick up on some… odd tendencies he had. I came home once to find him pulling the legs off of a spider he'd captured. One day, it was a bird. Another, he was writing this—this… manifesto…"

She paused and took a shaky sip of her tea. There was a beat of silence. Under the table, Fang kicked me and shot me a look like, _Hello? A fucking manifesto?_

"A manifesto how?" I asked. I tried to be gentle—I knew that in situations like these, pushing too hard would get us nothing and turn this entire adventure into a waste.

I also knew the word _manifesto_ was, you know, loosely associated with several historical features who were ready to _take over the freaking world,_ either by mass genocide or otherwise _._

"Silas was plotting to get the entire city under his control. Once he had the city, he was going to branch out, move one by one to the surrounding parts of New England, then the other regions."

Aaaaand there it was.

"How the hell was he gonna do that?" blurted Iggy. "Nobody in their right mind was gonna listen to that psychopath."

This time, _I_ was kicking under the table. " _Iggy_ ," I hissed.

Marion offered a forced smile. "It's a valid point. The problem is that Silas has blackmailed so many people in the government, in the police force, in the CIA… he's killed more people than he can count. The city lives in fear of him. There is nobody to report to—because everyone knows better than to open their mouth to the wrong person."

A huge, booming silence was left in the wake of this declaration. I turned to Fang, whose face barely revealed the grimness he was no doubt feeling.

"Wait," Iggy said after a long bout of silence. "So what you're saying is…"

Another moment of silence.

"He succeeded," Fang finished.

The words fell like glass and shattered in the quiet of the room. The weight of this revelation seemed to touch even Gazzy and Angel, who were no doubt too young to fully understand the level of corruption we were discussing here.

This man owned the city. There was no point in searching any further or in hunting anyone else down. He was the one running the show. If we eliminated him, we'd eliminate tiers and tiers of corruption and power struggle.

At the very least, we'd eliminate the threats on our lives and their potential normalcy.

"You're not safe here," I decided on finally. "Especially not now that we've talked to Gideon. You need to leave for a while. Stay with a friend or family."

Marion chuckled a kind of knowing laugh. "Silas would never hurt me. Gideon lives a life of fear, because he knows he's disposable. A liability, really. But me…" she shrugged. "I left Silas because I couldn't support the things that he was doing. I will always love the guy I fell in love with, but he isn't that man anymore."

"And he hasn't come after you?" Fang drilled. "Not once?"

Marion shook her head. "Silas doesn't let things go. He thinks that once he works on himself, once he's a bit kinder, I'll take him back. That's my safety net: being the woman he loves. He knows I won't blow the whistle, because he knows _I_ know that he'd kill Gid and his family. An eye for an eye. So as long as I keep my mouth shut and go about my day, he won't hurt me."

I thought of Jeb, the evil-scientist-turned-fake-Dad-turned-still-evil-scientist. I'd trusted him, once. I'd've taken a bullet for him, once. I'd loved him, once.

How could I possibly get this stranger to believe me? I could tell by the way she talked about him that she was still hooked—she still loved him. Or, rather, the _idea_ of him. The person that he used to be, before he swan dived off the deep end.

And one look at her told me she was going to ask us to spare his life.

"With people like this, you can't always be so sure," I said softly.

Marion shook her head. "I know him."

"People change," I said. "Especially these scientists—it becomes all about their work, no matter how inhumane it may be."

"You don't _understand_ ," she said emphatically. "I _know_ him. I know him deep down. He isn't evil. He's just sick and misguided—"

Fang shoved back from the table, treating us all to the deafening screech of his chair sliding across the tile. I half-expected him to yell, but instead, his voice was the soft, threatening tone he reserved for the most serious of situations.

"He's a liability as long as he's alive," Fang said, glaring down at Marion. "With the kind of control you're talking about, he's got the prisons in his back pocket. The judicial system. Everything that could possibly keep him behind bars, could keep people _safe_ , would be completely obsolete."

Marion shot to her feet across from Fang to her full five-foot-nothing. Her rusty eyes were sad but furious as she challenged him. "He's a human being!"

Fang slammed his hand on the table and leaned forward, making Marion stagger-step backwards in fear. "He's a monster."

Well, that was Fang. Calculating, cold, clinical, rational, and a bit impulsive. Typically the voice of reason when pesky things like emotions and ethics got in the way. Had any of us murdered someone willingly? No. In fact, I don't know that any of us have murdered _period._ Even the countless Erasers we'd fought never seemed to die. And Ari in the subway tunnel, well… that one couldn't count.

But what Fang was getting at was that this man, Silas Scythe, would _have_ to die. It was the only way to save ourselves and to save the city of Boston (and maybe the country) from a man who was clearly becoming a more powerful dictator as each day passed. Fang was right—no prison cell would hold him, no laws were strong enough.

He needed to be eliminated.

And I'd have to do it. To spare the innocence of my flock. To keep them sane. To keep them good.

"Take him down," said Marion. "He's dangerous. Corrupt. And the power he has is lethal, especially considering how unhinged he is. Take him down, expose him, do whatever you have to do. But please… don't kill him."

There it was. The direct request.

Fang grunted almost uncharacteristically from next to me as he sank back into his chair. I could see the twitch in his jaw, could practically hear his argument in my head, but I silently begged him not to open his mouth. _Cool it_ , I thought at him with a glare.

"He wasn't always this way. Once we were married, everything about him started to change. He's a sick man—I don't think he knows what he's doing, or that what he's doing is wrong. Please. Bring him to justice. But spare him his life."

I got the feeling we were preparing to hash that out right when the doorbell rang.

Everybody's head turned to face Marion, who looked puzzled. "Wasn't expecting company," said Marion. "You kids wait in the dining room. I'll send whoever it is off. Could be my sister—she tends to come around without asking."

Fang led the way into the living room. I brought up the rear, looking anxiously over my shoulder at the door as Marion peeled it open.

"I don't like this," Fang said out of the side of his mouth.

"Hello?" Marion asked in a small voice.

"Hi," said a voice back. A chill went down my spine. I couldn't place it, but I knew this voice.

Iggy kicked me. He recognized it too.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Marion asked politely.

"I'm looking for Marion Rodgers. I have a message for her."

Oh, this was bad news. Iggy's hand found my bicep and squeezed, his very annoying way of saying _oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit_ when he knows something's up but can't figure out what. I peered around the corner and only caught a glimpse of a silhouette behind the frosted glass. Marion was peeking out of the door as minimally as possible.

"Marion isn't here right now."

 _Oh, you go girl,_ I thought with a silent fist bump. At least she had the intuition to know when some shit was up.

"I was told you might say that."

Just then, a breeze rippled from the doorway, sending a chill through the dining room. It also sent something else entirely.

Iggy's fingernails dug impossibly deeper into my arm. "Max, it's an _Eraser!_ " he hissed in my ear.

In the approximately three seconds it took my brain to process this information, I'd dived through the archway connecting the living room to the entryway and choked out a desperate, " _No!"_

But I was too slow. I was still ten or so feet away when the Eraser pulled out his weapon and cocked it. I caught a glimpse of the telltale wolfy snout and the black barrel of the gun. "Silas says hello," he crooned.

And then he shot Marion Rodgers in the face.

Angel screamed. Gazzy made a sort of moaning noise. I heard Nudge choke back a gasp. Then I felt the spray of blood.

What's the closest you've ever been to somebody who got shot point-blank in the face? Maybe twenty feet? Fifty feet? A hundred feet? Never in your life? Well, I was somewhere between five and ten feet from Marion Rodgers when her head exploded. I'll let your imagination lead the way as to the types of fluids and substances I was covered with as she collapsed to the ground.

My momentum was already carrying me straight to the doorway, and there was no time to stop it now. So I let it take me, feeling all sorts of mixed emotions pumping through me that I had no time or energy to process.

The first hit I managed to get in was a pretty impressive right hook. It caught the Eraser on the side of the head and happened to jar him enough to give me a second to regroup.

"Get out of here!" I called over my shoulder at the flock. Fang was standing in his fighting stance, looking prepared to throw himself into the mix with me.

One Eraser? I could handle it. I tried to tell him as much with my gaze. "Get them out of here!" I tried again in my most Leaderly Voice. I threw out a leg with as much force as possible, satisfied when my boot found the Eraser's kneecap and he howled. God, they weren't training them like they used to. "I'll meet you back at the hotel!"

Fang gave me one more long look before turning back to the flock and gesturing to the massive skylight above him. "Up and away," he ordered. Then he threw open his giant black wings, pumped them a few times, braced his arms over his head, and broke through, just like a trillion years ago in the restaurant. Angel was right behind him, then Gazzy with Iggy immediately in tow, then finally Nudge.

Then I was seeing stars. _Yow!_ A furry paw had clubbed me on the side of the face. I felt my cheek immediately swell. I straightened my jaw—it clicked obnoxiously in the back of my mouth. When he reached a paw out again, I dipped out of the way and landed a sucker punch to his gut. _Fool me once,_ I thought.

The Eraser doubled over after my punch. I swept my legs underneath him but he managed to jump. I backed a bit further into the house and grabbed for the vase on the kitchen table, throwing it across the room at the Eraser and watching with glee as it exploded in his face.

"Agh!" he roared. He tried to use the backs of his paws to clear the glass from his face but instead ended up smearing it into his eyes. His cries got louder and he began to thrash.

"Leave us the _hell_ alone," I growled, advancing on him and shoving him. He fell back onto the hardwood, trying desperately to regain his footing.

The Eraser tried to laugh bitterly but, due to his bleeding eyes, was sadly unable.

He tumbled backwards into a hutch full of fine china. More glass flurried the room around us. One of my boots found his neck. I could practically hear Jeb's stupid voice in my head as I collected my thoughts. _Different tactic, Max. Every enemy can offer you something. What can this Eraser offer you?_

"An address," I blurted. The Eraser snorted under my boot. I increased the pressure and watched as his lips turned blue. "You heard me, you worthless dog," I spat. "Give. Me. An. Address."

He tried to say something, but the words were squelched under his collapsing windpipe. I took my boot away and knelt next to him, replacing the pressure with my hand. "Try that again," I goaded.

More hoarse, broken words. I pulled my hand away entirely.

The Eraser's face was a mess. All the glass had not only cut his eyes but the entirety of his face; he looked like he'd been put through a blender. He couldn't see me, I was certain—those eyes of his were far beyond damaged—but the wicked grin he gave me implied he knew what he was about to do to me.

"He's going to kill them all."

My blood turned to ice. I twisted his wrist and held it there, prepared to break it if he said so much as one wrong word.

"Who?" I demanded.

"That delicate little family of yours," the Eraser said. "Silas is going to kill them all. Slowly and painfully. And he's going to make you watch."

My ears started ringing. I choked back images that I couldn't afford to see right then. _Breathe, Max. Breathe. In, out. In, out._

"Who do you think he should torture the longest? Maybe the little fair one?"

Angel. An anguished scream ripped from my throat as my hand found his neck again but couldn't apply the necessary pressure to shut him up. Did I subconsciously want him to keep going? Did I need to hear what he was going to say?

"Or maybe—oh, I know," he said wickedly. "Of course. The dark one. Your mate, correct?"

Well, now my hand had no problem crushing his trachea again. "Cute," he choked out. "He'll keep you alive, of course. To play with."

"This is what you're going to do," I managed through my teeth. "You are going to _give me an address_. You are going to _tell me where to find this man._ And you are going to _leave my family the hell alone_. Do you understand me?"

The Eraser smiled that sickly grin, yellow canines bared for the world to see. Except there was no world, just then. It was he and I. Predator and prey. Who was who still wasn't entirely clear to me.

"You weren't designed to die," choked out the Eraser. "You were designed to be an experiment. But I still hold out hope I'll see you in hell, Maximum Ride."

Jesus Christ, he was monologuing. I had a minute to grasp one bit of information— _I wasn't designed to die?_ —before several things happened all at once.

The Eraser caught me completely off-guard and flipped us, crushing me under the weight of his body. Then he produced a gun from the leg of his pants and the barrel was at my forehead, and suddenly everything was wrong, wrong, wrong, and I'd _totally_ screwed the pooch on this one.

The gun cocked and I closed my eyes and prayed to a God that didn't exist that the flock knew that I loved them, that they'd be okay without me, that Fang could lead in my absence. And oh, God, _Fang_ —

" _Oof!_ "

The Eraser went tumbling off me and a different figure was there, tackling him to the ground. "Max— _go!_ " shouted a voice.

A voice that belonged to Gideon Goodchurch.

I stood there stupidly for a minute, trying to string together what exactly had just happened.

" _What are you standing there for? GET OUT OF HERE!_ "

His voice may as well have broken the sound barrier, but everything was muted and slow-motion, like I was watching a movie with the volume on low. My body took over: I turned around, pounded down the steps, and ran faster than I'd ever run before all the way back to our hotel.

The sound of Gideon Goodchurch's desperate last wishes and the gunshot that silenced them followed me all the way there.

* * *

I ran full-stop into the door of the hotel room and banged on it mercilessly, not even bothering to search for my room key. "It's me, it's me, it's me," I repeated over and over. My breaths were coming impossibly fast but I still couldn't get enough air—I was sweating from sprinting, I was panicking from what I'd seen, there'd been so much _blood_ , oh _God_ —

"Alright, alright, alright," Iggy was muttering. He opened the door but stopped short, apparently sensing my distress. "Max?" I soundlessly shoved by him. "Hey, whoa, whoa, what's going on? Are you okay?"

Uselessly, I shook my head, clutching a hand over my heart as I paced the short length of the hotel room.

Vaguely, I was aware of the sound of the shower shutting off. A moment or two later, Fang emerged from the bathroom, wet-haired and clad only in a pair of sweatpants that sank low on his hips. I was far too distressed to appreciate it.

His eyes fell on me and were black with concern in an instant.

"What's going on?" he asked in his no-nonsense tone, advancing on where I was wearing a hole in the carpet. He put his hands on my shoulders, but his touch was far too restricting, so I tried to shake him off. When he didn't move, my breathing got even faster—was it just me, or was the room spinning—?

"Max, you need to breathe," Iggy said nervously.

"No—shit," I huffed out. I clutched my hand closer to my chest, willing this feeling to go away, whatever it was. Was this what a heart attack felt like?

Fang's grip, once so restricting, directed me to the edge of one of the beds and forced me to sit there. "Breathe."

"You have plenty of space here," Iggy said shakily. "Jesus, Max— _calm_ _down_." Then, to Fang: "What the hell happened?"

"Where are the kids?" I forced out in one breath.

"They went down to the pool," Iggy said.

" _What?_ " I shrieked, leaping back to my feet. "Are you two _idiots?_ They can't be there alone!"

"We told them ten minutes," Fang said. Then he checked his watch. "They should be back any minute."

"Go get them," I ordered. "I'll tell you everything when you get back—they can't be there by themselves, we're not safe."

Iggy and Fang exchanged a peculiar look. "Well, _I_ don't know where the fucking pool is," Iggy said. Fang eyed me warily and said, "Breathe," before disappearing out the door.

My breaths started to come quickly again, too quickly. Iggy pushed me back down to the mattress and forced my head between my legs. "Deep breaths," he encouraged me, sounding totally shaken. His delicate fingers traced paths down my spine, something that used to comfort me when we were younger.

The edges of my vision darkened before I could notice, much like the pilling quilt of the bed found my cheek before I was aware. The memory had fully engulfed me before even realized I was gone from reality.

 _I am bound to a metal chair in the Blue Room at the School—we call it this because of its baby blue walls, so deceptive of the torture that they house. My left arm is strapped down strongly enough that my five-year-old self can't break free. Jeb is in a seat next to me, holding my right hand, looking some sort of terrifying mix between friend and foe. Every single atom in my body is tense with fear._

 _Something is wrong._

" _Max," he says with a desperate look in a hushed voice. "There's a chance you never remember this. I pray maybe you will. One day, a number will appear on your neck. When that happens—I need you to listen closely—"_

"Max!"

 _The voice pierces my ears. Who is it? Not Jeb or I. I glance around the room, searching for another possible source. The voice is familiar. I know it as well as my own, somehow, although I can't seem to place it._

" _Max," Jeb says impatiently. His hand squeezes mine a bit too tight. I bite my lip. "I need you to pay attention. This is very important."_

"MAX!"

 _The scene flashes to a very different one, but a familiar one. I am older. I am being pushed against a cold, brick wall. The body that holds me there isn't large—maybe an inch or so taller than me, not nearly as much muscle—but it keeps me still, unable to move, unable to be free._

 _I suck a deep breath in and freeze when I smell the cologne. "Max," says my captor in his familiar voice. "I need you to pay attention. This is very important."_

 _I freeze._

" _You were created durably, for longevity beyond human years. Remember that—no matter what they tell you—"_

 _The voice is strangled, suddenly. The sounds of the snake slithering have filled the dark space, and I know it has taken this man in its clutches. He is being choked by it. I imagine how he looks: soft, brilliant blue eyes, conflicted expression, hard jaw._

 _The base of my neck is burning—I try to raise a hand to put out the fire, but I'm completely locked in place._

 _Fear grips me. None of this makes sense, but my body is a live wire of terror. I start to open my eyes to appraise the dying form of my captor but close them after a second thought. It doesn't matter._

 _Because I already know who I'm going to see._

I snapped out of the trance like one might break the surface of the ocean after nearly drowning: gasping and choking at the popcorn ceiling above me. When I sat up, I moved so suddenly that I slammed my forehead into Iggy's.

"God dammit, Max, what are we going to _do_ with you?" he said with a worried look. "Did you just pass out on me?"

His words slid over me—horror had already taken ahold of me with its icy grip. The one who'd been shoving me against the wall, paralyzing me, and begging me to pay attention in the dream? My old mentor, my old father, and the first person I ever loved: Jeb Batchelder.

 _Dream or memory?_ I didn't remember Jeb ever being involved with the snake. Then again, I didn't remember _any_ of the things I'd seen in these visions. Jeb was the one who'd told me about all of the those terrible things that had happened, and he'd done so in fairly good detail.

But he'd never mentioned this. Because it wasn't real? Because he was withholding information? Because he didn't think it was important?

 _Dream or memory?_

Were there _more_ of these things to come? I'd assumed they were connected to the chip, but maybe these were instead just parts of my mind that my subconscious had protected me from until necessary. But if that were the case, what made them necessary _now?_

It took about half a second for all of these thoughts to pileup in my brain. My neck was aching, my entire body felt on fire, and I was certain I might hurl. One of my hands found the base of my neck and rubbed there—I hissed in pain.

"What?" Iggy said. "You good?"

"Come here," I said.

Iggy approached the bed and helped me sit up. I took one of his hands in mine and pressed it to the base of my skull. His fingers jumped away as if scalded.

He furrowed his brows. "What the hell's going on here?" His hand came around the front of my face and felt my cheeks, my forehead. " _All_ of you is burning up. Max…" His voice trailed off. "What _happened_ back there?"

But I couldn't make myself speak.

Iggy found a bottle of water and a clean t-shirt and started blindly washing my face and hands. How he knew about the blood spatter and why he felt he was the best choice to clean it, I'll never know. I think he just wanted to keep his hands busy while I remained in a state of near-catatonia.

The door opened quietly behind us. Just Fang poked through, to my absolute horror.

He saw my face and raised his hands. "They're stopping at the vending machine at the end of the hall," he said slowly. "I figured that would fly for Drill Sergeant Max." Then he took a moment to reassess my appearance: flushed face, sickened expression, one hand pressed to my forehead and another to my neck. "You need to talk."

"After that Eraser killed Marion, he almost got me."

Fang frowned deeply. "This is why I should've—"

"But then Gideon Goodchurch showed up."

Silence.

" _What?_ " Iggy said.

"Gideon Goodchurch showed up and tackled him off me and told me to run, to go. So I did. And the Eraser killed him as I ran away." I closed my eyes, remembering the broken cry that had followed me the entire way back. "Rodgers is dead. Goodchurch is dead. They're both dead because of me."

"Don't do that," said Iggy. "You didn't pull the trigger."

"I loaded the gun!"

Iggy turned his head to the side. "You did? When did you have a—"

"Metaphorically speaking!" I said, waving my hands wildly. "I caused this whole mess! And now we have no leads, nobody to tell us where Vector really is, and we're sitting ducks because they know we're here, and— _agh!_ "

My hand found my neck again and I grimaced, rubbing it, trying to scrape the burning skin off. "Quit that," Iggy said, reaching a blind hand out to whack my arm away. He missed by about six inches.

"What's going on?"

"Max is burning up."

"It's nothing," I said off-handedly. "The Eraser did a number on me, he must've—"

" _No_ ," Iggy interjected, "Max had one of those vision things while you were gone, and then she woke up and she was like this."

"Vision?" Fang said. "What happened in this one?"

"Jeb was there," I said, but was cut off by my own hissing again.

Fang crossed the room and forced me to sit up in the bed. He leaned over next to me and pulled my hair off my back and neck, draping it over one shoulder.

Then he sucked in a gasp. Then he went completely still.

Then he stopped breathing.

I was almost too afraid to ask. "What?"

His hand was trembling where it held my hair out of the way. Slowly, his other hand came up to caress the back of my neck. I flinched under his touch.

My stomach was flipping. Something terribly, terribly grave had happened. Something that would change everything. "Fang, _what?_ "

A moment passed. I heard sounds that had to have been Fang composing himself. When he spoke, his voice was odd, almost strangled—I couldn't figure out what emotion was coloring it.

When he spoke, the world stopped turning.

Because when he spoke, he said, "Max, it's an expiration date."


	16. SIXTEEN

SIXTEEN

I leaped off the bed so fast that my foot got tangled in the sheets. My hip hit the side table, knocking over the bedside lamp, and my head slammed into the windowsill so hard that I had to blink my vision back into existence.

Iggy's mouth was moving and sounds were coming out as his blind eyes flicked back and forth from me to Fang then back to me again. I couldn't make sense of what he was saying.

Fang stole my gaze and wouldn't let it go. Because he usually kept everything so trapped behind a mask, it was odd to see the clear expression of pain plastered on his features. His hand was still hovering midair where his fingers had brushed the back of my neck.

We all figured this moment was coming for us, at one point or another. You know, expiring. The problem was, we had _no idea_ when it would come. Erasers only lasted a few years—that we knew for a fact. But human-avian hybrids? As far as we were concerned, I was the oldest one. Which made me the School's Class of 2012 proud winner of Most Likely to Self-Destruct First.

But why?

Audio came slamming back all at once. Fang was motionlessly grilling me from the bed. Iggy, on the other hand, had started pacing back and forth, running his pale hands through his hair, making little sounds of frustration or grief or something.

I gripped the windowsill and pulled myself to my feet, leaning heavily against the armchair next to me for support. One of my hands found the back of my neck again, feeling the skin there. Hot, smooth. Normal.

"What does it say?" I forced out. My voice was shaky and small; I hated myself for being weak. Fang's mouth was set in a grim line, almost as if he didn't trust himself to open it. I glowered at him. "What. Does. It. Say."

Silence.

I dove across the room to Nudge's bag, where I knew she kept a compact mirror next to her brush. I rifled through the pockets, found it, and raced to the small vanity in the room, turning around and trying to position the small mirror so it would capture whatever the larger one was.

Suddenly, a calloused hand was snapping the mirror shut. I rounded on Fang. When my voice came out, it was shredded, stretched, bare—a sound of desperation I never remembered making before.

"I deserve to know!" Fang grabbed me by the arms and held me at an arm's length as I threw punch after futile punch into the air between us. " _I deserve to know, Fang!_ "

Fang, who had also noticed the haunted tone of my voice, dropped his chin to his chest and lowered his hands. Immediately, I stopped attacking. With a deep breath, Fang looked up with a tortured pair of eyes, like he was begging, _Don't make me say it._ Then, when I didn't look away: "Next week."

Next week.

Next week.

 _Next. Week._

I blinked. The long-lost feeling of autopilot took over as my brain set up its best defenses: denial and ignorance.

"Let me see it."

Fang squinted at me but said nothing.

" _Let me see it_."

He didn't say anything for a long time. After what felt like hours, he turned me back around, gently brushed the hair from my neck, and held the compact mirror over my left shoulder. I ducked and looked behind me.

Well, I almost fell over right then and there.

Iggy surged forward and turned me with concerning precision to sit on the bed rather than crash to the floor. It was obvious that he was biting back curse words, but my mind couldn't fire on enough cylinders to really process anything much further than that.

 _Next week_ , Fang's voice kept saying over and over in my head. Echoing in the emptiness. Filling the silence with chaos. Penetrating the deepest, most peaceful parts of me.

"Next week," I rasped. The words fell like dewdrops on a stagnant, lifeless pool.

"Okay," Iggy said. It was the voice he used when he was nervously trying to fill up the vast airspace of nothingness with _something_. "Okay. We don't know this for sure, right?"

I stared at him emotionlessly. I couldn't bring myself to look at Fang. I knew what we both were thinking: _It's an_ expiration date _, Iggy. How much surer does it get?_

"No, no—hear me out on this one," Iggy said. "Listen. We never knew for sure that we'd expire, did we?"

I was completely checked out of this conversation. I looked to Fang, who'd managed to compose himself again. Mostly.

"Iggy," he tried.

"Answer the question, Fang! Have we _ever_ gotten valuable intel that indicated we were programmed with expiration dates?"

Fang set his jaw, too stubborn to say anything.

" _No_ ," Iggy said emphatically. "It was just a rumor. The Erasers have them, but nobody else."

"Not true," I choked out absently. "Some of the other mutants did. Back at the School."

"Were any of them nearly as successful as us?"

It was rhetorical; neither Fang nor I answered.

"Exactly. _So_ , doesn't it seem a _little_ fishy that we're hot on Vector's tail when this happens to show up? I mean, come on, guys, think about this _rationally—_ we're _multi-billion-dollar_ creations. _Successful_ ones. That they've been hunting ever since we slipped out of their slimy little hands."

"Iggy—"

"How would they have any idea how successful we were going to be when they were setting up our genetic profiles? We could've been duds, only lived for days. Or hours."

Now he was frustrating me. " _Iggy_ —"

"Use your head! Why would these Whitecoats spend billions of dollars to create us and _program us_ with expiration dates at the getgo?"

I couldn't respond. I couldn't care.

Fang, who'd been eerily silent, shot me a questioning look. He could clearly see how detached I was from this conversation. The shock from Marion's head exploding, Gideon's death, and now this development, were rendering me totally incapable of fully grasping the magnitude of the situation.

Iggy growled with impatience and shook his head. "You're never going to believe me. No matter what way you slice it, it doesn't make sense, Max. Why on earth would they just _kill_ us like that?"

The huge, stinking elephant in the room was that they weren't killing _us_ like that. They were killing _me_ like that. And there were about a million and one reasons why they may want to do that. I didn't have to raise my gaze or voice this thought—all three of us were thinking it.

I thought back to the vision (memory?) I'd had minutes ago. Jeb telling me that I was built for longevity, to remember that, no matter what anyone told me. I thought back to the Eraser at Marion's, telling me that I wasn't designed to die. Not even an hour later, and my slated death date appeared on my neck. This wasn't a coincidence, but it certainly wasn't adding up the way I'd anticipated it might.

 _Next week. Next week._

 _You weren't designed to die, but I still hold out hope I'll see you in hell, Maximum Ride,_ the Eraser had said.

Slowly, what Iggy was saying saturated my brain. Could this be another trick?

 _Next week. Next week. Next week._

 _You were created durably, for longevity beyond human years,_ Jeb had said.

Could I allow myself to be that optimistic?

I'd just opened my mouth to explore these options with Fang and Iggy when the door nearly flew from its hinges and the kids were there, arms laden with snacks and drinks from the vending machine.

Immediately, I shoved up whatever walls I could possibly manage inside my brain. I liked to think I'd gotten pretty good at it over the years of living with Angel. She'd backed off from prodding into our minds without asking, but it was still better to be safe.

I kicked Iggy and hoped he got the message. Fang was no doubt already up to speed.

"What happened?" Nudge asked immediately when she saw our faces.

"Nothing, Nudge," I said tiredly. My head hurt, I felt exhausted, and I was still covered in fragments of Marion Rodgers' skull. I needed a long shower and a long, _long_ sleep to allow this battered brain of mine to do some processing. Because it _certainly_ wasn't happening while I was conscious.

And then we had to start all over tomorrow with our search for Vector. I bit back a groan and pressed a hand to my forehead.

Nudge, who learned her endearing stubbornness from me, narrowed her eyes in a death glare and put a hand on her hip. "No, not _nothing_."

"It's certainly not something we'll be discussing now," I said in a voice that indicated, _that's it. Class dismissed. Try again later._

"We deserve to know!"

 _Oh, God, here we go…_

"Just because we're younger doesn't mean we're not a part of this flock!" she said frustratedly. Tears were prickling at the corners of her pretty eyes; Nudge always cried when she was furious. "All of this crazy stuff is happening and I just want to know what's going on!"

Iggy groaned and dumped his head in his hands. Fang looked like he hadn't breathed since he'd told me I was dying in a week. The three of us looked ragged; I could only imagine the assumptions the kids were making. I felt totally, entirely numb.

The Gasman shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, clearly unsure what to do or say. Angel sniffed. She looked close to tears. My heart clenched and I took a reflexive step toward her—Nudge shot me another glare and wrapped an arm tenderly around her.

"Seriously?" Nudge whispered in a betrayed voice. "You're not going to tell us." It was accusatory and not a question.

That was what it took to completely shut me down. Our world was out of control, we now had no leads on our mission, I was slated for death in a week, and nothing I could say to the kids would possibly make any of it okay.

I turned on my heel just in time before I started crying. With the steadiest voice I could manage, I announced, "No." Then I walked into the bathroom, locked the door behind me, turned the shower on, and cried.

* * *

I spent close to an hour in the shower. The first fifteen minutes were spent scrubbing my entire body raw and washing out the rat's nest that my hair had become. The second fifteen minutes were spent working on the patch of skin just beneath my skull that I was desperate to wash away. I spent the third fifteen minutes sobbing and dedicated the very end of my shower to pulling myself the hell together.

I knew I looked like hell, so I was fully prepared to spew some bullshit excuse when I walked out of the bathroom red-eyed and puffy-faced. Imagine my overjoyed surprise when I found the hotel room full of sleeping birdkids.

I eyed the clock then looked down at my hands. They were ghostly pale and pruny. Maybe I'd spent a lot longer in the shower than I thought.

As silently as I could manage, I crossed the room as I toweled off my hair. We'd managed to get the thermostat to a temperature everyone could manage, but we were all so so different: Nudge had just a sheet barely covering one leg, Gazzy was motionless under the comforter, Angel was swaddled in a nest of blankets and pillows.

It was a snapshot of perfection, of peace. I willed it to last forever.

When I made it across the room, I found a note on a piece of scrap paper on my pillow. I recognized Fang's handwriting immediately.

 _Meet me by the pool._

My heart gave a little jolt. I eyed the sleeping bodies of my flock. I didn't feel safe leaving them here so vulnerable and unprotected.

I almost jumped out of my skin when Nudge spoke. "Go."

I went with playing dumb. "Go where?"

She snorted. "Wherever Fang wants to meet you. You might not tell us anything, Max, but we're not stupid."

A beat. "How did you—"

"He woke me up when he left. Go ahead, I'll be awake. First sign of trouble and I'll pull the fire alarm and we'll meet you at Thompson Island."

I exhaled heavily and decided to accept defeat on this one. I didn't feel up to talking about any of this crap, but maybe Fang would just sit with me in silence.

"Nudge," I started, but she waved her hand.

"It's okay, Max," she said. "Really."

There was so much more to talk about. Later.

I trudged down to the pool room in shorts and an oversized t-shirt. When I got there, the glass door was locked. The room was dark aside from the pool lights, which splashed a reflection of the moving water on the walls.

When I peered in, I saw no sign of Fang. Then I bent to examine the keyhole and saw the subtle but telltale signs of a picked lock.

I had just enough time to debate heading back up to the room for Iggy's kit or a bobby pin or something when Fang materialized on the other side of the door. Watching him appear out of thin air still made me want to throw up. I must've made a face, because he half-smiled and pulled the door open for me.

I followed him to the edge of the pool. Fang dropped his feet into the water and we sat next to each other in comfortable silence for a while. Eventually, I let my feet dangle, too; the sharp bite of the icy water sent a chill through me, but it was a welcome kind of feeling for a change.

Fang had this incredibly exhausting way of waiting me out, _especially_ during times like this. After a long, silent five minutes or so, I sighed and ducked my head, still unsure of what to say.

Fang's eyes were burning holes into me. "What's worse?" he said after a minute. "Chunks of steaming Eraser flesh after one of Iggy and the Gasman's bombs? Or Marion Rodgers' brain matter?"

I blinked.

Well, _that_ wasn't what I expected him to say.

Before I even knew how to react, I was laughing. Belly laughing. The kind of laughter that starts as a disbelieving chuckle and escalates into full-blown hysterics. God, it was all just so… so… _unbelievable._ All of it. From our very existence, to the last two years of our lives, to the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Fang started to laugh quietly next to me, and after a few moments we were leaning against each other, cackling; inconsolable, overwrought, and certifiably insane.

"We can't let this distract us," I said, gesturing to the back of my neck.

Fang looked at me with disbelief, like, _O-kay, Max_. "That should be a piece of cake."

"I'm serious. If I'm going to…"

A tightness almost like a hand squeezing my heart rippled through my chest, and I gasped.

 _Say it,_ I told myself. _You have to say it._

"If I'm going to die, I'm going to die," I exhaled. Oddly enough, it made me feel better. "Scythe still has to go down."

Fang nodded.

"And anyway… There's no way this expiration date is legit." I scrubbed a hand over it, willing it to go away, but all it did was agitate the skin I'd already rubbed raw. "Right?"

Fang examined me thoughtfully, almost sadly. His eyes landed between my brows and somehow the horrifying thought occurred to me that maybe I had a zit or something.

Before I had time to ask, he pressed one of his fingers there. "You eyebrows are going to get stuck all furrowed like that."

I rolled my eyes. "Please, spare me. I don't want the last of my days to be spent listening to your bullshit."

Fang faltered. For a second, it looked like he might say something sentimental, or like an actual emotion might cross his face.

No such luck. Instead, he dove at me.

And the two of us tumbled, with a loud splash, into the deep end of the pool.

I shrieked in surprise and surfaced, looking for Fang so I could freaking _murder him_ —but he wasn't there. No. He _was_ there. He just wasn't _visible._

"Showoff," I muttered.

"I've been practicing," he retorted from somewhere at the other end of the pool.

Well, he _had_. While I couldn't actually see _him_ , I could see where his body cut through the gentle current of the pool water. He was walking at a fairly decent speed and _completely invisible._

 _Oh, jeez._

I felt the nerves come, as they always did, when he disappeared. This time, though, I started breathing fast—too fast—and the world around me started to spin. Oh, God, I was going to die. And now Fang was gone—and the flock would be all alone—

I stumbled backward a couple of paces, scraping my back against the gritty cement of the pool edge. The world around me was suddenly black. When my hand shot out to grab onto something, it found the warmth of a body.

I opened my eyes. Fang rematerialized in front of me, looking worried. It was shaping up to be one of those times that every single time he looked at me, it was with concern.

Determined not to fall apart, I let my lungs fill with air and relaxed a bit against the tile. Fang's hands were heavy on my shoulders.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're not."

I knew he was right. _He_ knew I knew he was right.

"I'm fine," I insisted anyway.

" _O_ -kay," he mocked.

I planted my hands on either side of me along the edge of the pool and shoved myself out of the water, shivering as the chilly air of the room tasted my wet flesh. "We should head back. The kids are alone. And I'm cold."

Fang's eyes were glued to my t-shirt. I looked down, wondering what he could possibly be staring at, and then I realized that the soaking fabric was practically plastered to my skin.

I all but screamed in frustration and pulled myself to my feet. Fang, snapping from his reverie, blinked a few times and looked up at me, a comically confused expression on his face. As if he'd actually acted on impulse, for once. As if he were feeling something entirely new for the first time.

I didn't have time for this. Two innocent people were dead, we were further than ever from finding Vector, and I was going to die in a week. I crossed my arms over my chest and stalked away.

And, despite my consternation, snuck a look over my shoulder at his face—and the bright red flush that had taken over it.

* * *

We made it back to our room unseen. When I reached forward to swipe the keycard, Fang wrapped his hand around my wrist lightly and tugged me to face him.

His eyes were burning. My throat suddenly felt remarkably dry.

"What?" I asked, but it came out like a croak.

Fang put one of his hands on my cheek; his touch was warm, and I reflexively leaned into it and shut my eyes. His other hand found my waist where my sopping t-shirt clung to my skin and used the leverage to inch me a bit closer to him.

When he leaned in, I was _certain_ he was going to kiss me. But instead, he pressed his forehead against mine and heaved a giant sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body. Water from his hair dropped down between us.

The words that fell from his lips were nothing short of a vow. "I will do everything in my power to keep you alive."

"No, you won't," I challenged quietly. "We need to keep _you_ alive. So when I'm gone, you can lead."

Fang's breath hitched, and I felt him tense for a moment before regaining his composure. "I'm not letting them get away with this."

There was no point in arguing. Nothing either of us said would change anything; our only chance was to find Silas Scythe, and our two biggest connections were dead in a house in Back Bay.

Fang moved his hand from my waist and placed it on my other cheek. Then he angled my face up to meet his, bent down, and, more delicately than I thought possible, placed the softest of kisses on my lips.

He pulled away too soon—suddenly, it felt like there was no time left, like we were running out of air as the water rose.

"I'm not giving you up for anything."

"I hope you don't have to," I responded.

I thought back to the last time I felt this afraid, a whopping one week ago when I was convinced I was going to lose the use of my left arm. When I was on Dr. Martinez's table hopped up on laughing gas, I'd looked to Fang for guidance.

"Fang."

"Yeah."

I swallowed thickly and looked at my feet. "Everything's gonna be fine, right?"

Seconds stretched into hours into millennia. One of Fang's long fingers found my chin and tipped my head up so he could see me. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Everything's gonna be fine."

There was so much more that I wanted to say, that _needed_ to be said, but it couldn't be now.

Then when?

I swiped the keycard and Fang and I stepped into the darkness of the room. Like always, I started counting heads. _Fang, Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy, Angel—_

… _Angel?_

"Where's Angel?" I said anxiously.

When my question was met with silence, I glanced over at Fang. His face was just as pale as mine must've been.

"Angel?"

Nobody in the room stirred.

Oh, God.

"Angel!"

I surged forward and grabbed the first living thing I found: Nudge. There was a cut on her forehead that appeared to be from blunt force. The blood was already starting to dry—this injury had happened right after I'd left the room.

"Son of a bitch, they were watching us," I spat. "God _dammit._ Fang, tell me you see Angel somewhere!"

Fang was hovering over the Gasman, who also had battle wounds consistent with being knocked unconscious. I staggered across the room and laid eyes on Iggy, who had a bruise the size of a small orange forming on the side of his head. A tiny stream of blood trickled from one ear.

Fang ripped the sheets from the beds. I raced into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain, praying I'd find her totally unharmed and hiding. _Surprise, Max. Wasn't I smart to hide?_

But I didn't. Angel was gone.

No—someone had _taken_ her.

I stumbled back into the living room and sought out her scent. Nothing. I pulled open the window and shoved my face out—nothing. I took a couple of steps back, preparing to launch myself into the night, but then somebody was pulling me backward, away from the open air, back into the hotel room.

It was Fang. He looked absolutely wild. "Max— _no_. This has trap written all over it, you can't just go taking off."

"I don't care if it's a stupid trap!" I shouted. "We're talking about _Angel!_ "

"We have no idea where they took her! _None_. She could be in the building!"

"I would _smell_ her if she was in the building!"

Fang dragged a hand through his hair, looking ready to break something. "We need to at least find a lead."

"And how long do you think that will take, _Fang_?"

"It'll be a lot quicker than banging on every door in the city!"

There was a groan from the bed next to us. _Iggy._

"Iggy," I gasped out. He groaned again and twisted under his blanket, face contorted in pain. "Iggy, what happened? Where's Angel?"

In very un-Iggylike fashion, he startled at my words. His hands rocketed to his ears and clamped down.

"Iggy?" Fang asked.

"Oh, God," Iggy moaned with a grimace. "I'm going to throw up."

In one fluid motion, Fang turned, grabbed the wastebasket, and shoved it in Iggy's hands. Iggy pulled himself into a seated position and leaned over the bucket, looking like he could fall over at any time. Fang reached a hand out to steady him.

"Iggy?"

Another low sound of pain came from somewhere deep in his chest. He shook his head and leaned further into the wastebasket. "Shh, shhhh," he urged. He grabbed Fang's shoulder for support but retracted his hand quickly when he felt the freezing, wet fabric of his shirt. "Did you go fucking swimming?"

"What's going on?" I demanded.

"Everything's so _loud_." One of his hands found his ear again, and he pulled it away with a frown. "Is this _blood?_ "

I shot Fang a look like, _I need you to handle this_. Then I crossed the room to Nudge and shook her by the shoulders again. "Nudge, sweetie, wake up," I begged. "Wake up, come on, let me see those eyes."

Nudge blinked heavily up at me. As her eyes focused on me, her face broke into a horrified expression. "Oh, no, Max," she wailed.

"It's okay, it's okay—"

"I'm so sorry, they came in and I couldn't stop them and they went after Angel and then they—"

"Nudge, I need you to breathe, _it's okay_." I took her into my arms. Was it okay? No. Because nothing was okay. But blaming Nudge wouldn't bring Angel back. "What happened?"

"I don't know! I heard the doorknob and I thought it was you guys, but then they came in and it was all so fast—"

" _Who came_ _in_?" I demanded.

Nudge was nearly hyperventilating. The smallest part of me told me to back off, to let her breathe, but the rest of me knew how important this was.

"Big guys. Like the guy from the alley."

"Did they say _anything_ that would indicate where they took her? Anything _at all_?"

Nudge bit her lip and shook her head. "This is all my fault!"

My arm grazed something on the bed next to Nudge's knee. It was soft, downy, almost like a…

Feather. It was a feather; perfectly white and softer than snowflakes.

And _huge_. One of Angel's primaries.

I turned to Fang. My skin was crawling. I felt like a caged animal. Or a caged mama bear with a missing cub. "I need to go looking for her."

Fang shook his head. "Stupid idea."

I was getting hysterical. If I wanted him to agree with me, I needed to be more rational, less impulsive. "Listen. If I can sweep over the city, look for her smell, I could—"

"We're in a jam-packed city. There are thousands of people, layers of smog, and countless people coming after us. We're going to get her back, Max. We always do. We just need to be smart about it."

Behind us, the Gasman was beginning to show signs of life. Iggy had stopped gagging and was leaning back against the headboard behind him, looking closer to death than I ever remembered seeing him.

Fang noticed, too. "Yo," he said lowly. "You alright?"

Iggy winced but pulled his hands away from his head to wave us off. "I think just a concussion," he muttered. "Jesus. What happened? Everything seems so… intense."

"You guys were attacked," I said, just as Fang said, "What do you mean, _intense_?"

Iggy was chewing over his answer when the Gasman groaned and rolled over. Nudge started to fill him in on the details, but he only shook his head. "I remember." Then he looked to me. "So how are we getting her back?"

"Listen, I'd love to stay and talk strategy, but we need to get out of here," said Fang. "They know where we are."

At this reminder of her perceived failure, Nudge let loose another loud sob that dissolved into a coughing spell. The hollow walls of the room reflected the crushing sound back at me. It shook me to my bones.

Suddenly, Iggy was completely upright and alert. Then he blinked a couple of times, hard, as if he had something caught in his eyes. After a long look of confusion, he closed them. Nudge coughed into her shoulder again, and Iggy went rigid.

"Ig?" Fang asked lowly.

"Nudge, do that again," Iggy ordered.

"Do what?"

"Cough! Or—somebody make a sound. Something that—I don't know, resonates. Or echoes."

Everyone went silent. Then Fang clapped a few times. The sound boomed through the empty room.

Iggy looked up and sucked in a giant breath.

Something was wrong.

"What?" I demanded, advancing on him. When he didn't answer right away, I grabbed his hand and yanked him toward me. "Iggy, _what_? We're wasting time!"

He turned, eyes just as cloudy as always, but his face was painted in the brilliant smile he let me see so infrequently. "Oh, man," he chuckled in a strange voice.

" _What?_ "

He raised a hand toward my head. Then two of his long fingers reached out and grabbed a wisp of my hair that had broken free of my braid. His milky gaze settled just above my eyes, like it always did, but something about this minute gesture—the accuracy of his reach, the self-assured way that he moved—told me something had changed.

"Iggy?" I couldn't tell if I was terrified or excited.

Iggy laughed again and gripped my hand. His other hand cupped my cheek. "Max, I can _see._ "


	17. SEVENTEEN

SEVENTEEN

Well, this was a development that certainly tabled my wallowing for a later time.

"You can _what?_ "

I stood to my full height and got nose-to-nose with Iggy, squinting as hard as I could at his eyes. Still pale blue and obviously, undoubtedly sightless. I frowned. Was he hallucinating?

Were _his_ genes unraveling, too, just like mine?

In one fluid motion, I spun him around and yanked his overgrown hair away from the back of his neck. " _Ow_."

I brushed my hand over his skin. Cool to the touch, pale, and distinctively _not_ covered with a barcode. I allowed myself to breathe and stepped back, feeling dizzy.

"You can _see?_ " Nudge squealed.

"Not, like, _see_ ," Iggy elaborated.

"Oh, that's a helpful clarification," Gazzy muttered.

"It's… different," he said. "It's more like…"

He got very still and seemed to focus intently on the atmosphere around him. He snapped a couple of times. Then he laughed again.

"The TV is small. A thirty-six inch. Somebody snuck a dog in here maybe… last week. I can smell the fur." He wrinkled his nose. "It was after it rained. _Gross_. And…" He sniffed deeply." "Gazzy already ate a bag of Doritos on his walk over from the vending machine."

The Gasman's jaw dropped. Wordlessly, he held up his hand—sure enough, incriminating dust painted the tips of his fingers.

"Cool Ranch," Iggy added with certainty.

We all kind of sat there like idiots for a few seconds to let this sink in.

Iggy could… _see?_

"Holy shit," Fang said, which was about as stunned as he got. Still a gross understatement.

Okay. Now was not the time. "Iggy, this is great, and I want to hear all about it, and I'm so happy for you, but—"

"Yeah, yeah," he said with a wave of his hand. "Gotta go. I get it."

I had a feeling nothing could bring him down from the high he was on, even with Angel missing. And understood, I really did—Iggy had been lost in darkness for so many years. Whatever "sight" he was talking about was bringing him back into the light.

But we had to _go._

It took us four minutes to pack up and throw ourselves out the window of the hotel. We could've done it in less, but Nudge was hysterical again with guilt over Angel, so I ended up having to gather her things while Fang more or less tossed her into the air.

Iggy jumped out after her, followed by Gazzy, then finally Fang and I. I squelched the feeling of disappointment threatening to overcome me. Another safe place ruined by the School, or Itex, or Vector, or whoever was in charge these days.

We navigated wordlessly back to our initial safe place: Thompson Island.

Soaring through the cold nighttime air gave me time to put my Rational Hat on. Fang was right—I couldn't just go flying around looking for Angel, it was a total waste of time and resources. Knowing this, of course, didn't make me any less antsy, but it helped stifle the wild feeling of helplessness I felt.

We landed and set up a makeshift camp in the middle of a group of thick trees. They blocked most of the wind, but we were approaching mid-December and our Indian summer was starting to fade, so we loaded up on layers and huddled close together. Nudge was still crying. Iggy, who was positively giddy despite the terrible circumstances, had wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his side.

"So," Fang said after a minute. "Iggy can see."

"I don't know how to explain it. There's still nothing there. I'm still… I'm still blind."

My heart plummeted into my stomach. Of course he was still blind. There was no fixing the mechanical damage they'd done to his eyes. At least not with just a whack to the head.

"No, but it's okay," Iggy said quickly, like he noted my change in enthusiasm. "Because I can…"

As if trying to demonstrate his new capability, he snatched a rock from the ground next to him with precision. Then he tossed it about twenty feet in the air with his free hand and caught it seamlessly. Like he'd done it every day of his life.

I know it doesn't sound like much. Iggy was always pretty good, but you have to understand that this was something else entirely.

"You're like Daredevil," Fang said with slight wonder.

Iggy furrowed his brows. "What?"

If he were physically capable of it, I think Fang would've blushed. Instead, he said off-handedly, "A superhero. He's blind but can develop a map using his senses, almost like echolocation."

Gazzy was throwing rocks in the air and trying to catch them like Iggy had with minimal success. "Maybe you're part _dolphin_!"

"Hang on. There's been a _blind superhero_ all this time and _nobody_ thought to mention it to me?"

Unflappable as always, Fang didn't even blink. "You never asked."

Nudge sniffled and looked up at him. "Is that what it's like, Iggy?" she asked with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

Iggy considered this. "I don't really know how to describe it. I just… _know_ where things are. I can hear things more clearly, smell things better…"

I accepted that I wasn't going to understand it. Nudge started to cry even harder and buried herself further into Iggy's side.

Truthfully? I had no freaking clue what to say. Everything was going to hell. We'd been chased from the mainland, our only two leads on Vector were dead...

And Angel was gone.

Suddenly, I had to get out of there before I flipped my lid. I shoved to my feet, muttered that I'd be back, and trekked the quarter mile to the shoreline.

The moon was bright, and the waves were choppy. I leaned backward against the thick trunk of a maple tree and heaved a sigh, trying not to scream.

The only logical next option was dangerous, if only because it was most definitely what Scythe expected us to do. But we didn't have a choice. We were out of information, out of resources, and out of _time._ They had taken Angel. How long before they did something to her?

A branch snapped behind me and I jumped. Fang emerged from the darkness, eyes shining in the light of the moon.

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the trunk next to me. When he saw my face, he frowned. "What's up?"

"I have to go to Goodchurch's apartment."

His expression didn't change. Since he wasn't a total moron, he was smarter than to disagree with me—instead, he decided on, "Hmm."

"You know I'm right."

"They'll be waiting for you."

I sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "Yep."

Fang was still eyeing me carefully. "Hmm," he murmured again.

Good God, he was insufferable. "Jesus, Fang, if you have something to say, spit it out."

"You have to be the one to go because…?"

"Because I'm in charge," I snapped. "You need to stay here."

"And I couldn't possibly change your mind, because—"

I had no patience for this. "Because if I'm going to die anyway, what's the difference if it's now or in a week?"

Fang blanched a bit, like he'd been punched in the gut. He recovered quickly, but when he spoke, his voice was half volume. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair."

Fang brushed my hair away from my neck and examined the barcode there again. The cold air sent a shiver down my spine.

Before I could stop it, in the smallest of voices, I said, "Do you think it's real?"

"Listen," he said after a minute. "I'm just as confused about this as you are. But…" he trailed off, looking like he very much didn't want to say what he was about to. "We've always thought we had expiration dates programmed into us from birth. And with the chip gone, how could they be able to just make it appear like that?"

He sounded… scared. Good Lord, I couldn't think about this. Not now, not ever. "I don't know, Fang. All I know is that something isn't right here. I feel fine, and we have a mission. This date is a week away. We can't worry about this right now."

"Screw the mission!" Fang said harshly. "Max, this is your _life_!"

"Yeah, Fang, this is my life! This is _our_ lives!" I shoved away from the tree and started pacing in front of him. I was on the verge of a psychotic break. "Our miserable, stupid, fucked up lives! This is how it works! Bad stuff happens to us and we can't stop it!"

Fang watched me silently.

"If I'm really going to die, then what can we do about it?"

Fang said nothing.

"Exactly. So that means our best bet is to keep doing what we're doing, which is _hunt_ _down_ _whoever's_ _in_ _charge_. And that's Scythe."

I stopped pacing and leaned back against the tree next to Fang. I dumped my head in my hands and tried to stop my mind from racing.

"We have to tell the kids."

I blinked. "About what?"

He gestured to my neck.

"Are you crazy?" I glared at him. "Absolutely not! They'll be totally distracted!"

" _That's_ your biggest concern? Do you have any idea what it'll do to them if you just drop dead with no warning?" Fang barked back. "What kind of position would that put Iggy and I in? 'Yeah, we've known for a week, but we decided not to tell you—'"

"That's the point! We have an _entire week! And_ we don't even know that this is a real threat!"

Fang was livid; it was obvious. His jaw was rigid, his hands were clenched into fists, and every muscle of his body was as taut as a bowstring. The corners of his eyes were crinkled with the tiniest bit of raw fear.

"I'll give it four days," Fang said threateningly. "Four days for us to get in there, take down Vector, figure out if this is real or not. And then, if you're still going to die, I'm telling them."

I knew he wouldn't budge on this. "Fine," I spat.

He made an irritated face. "And listen, as noble as you are, and as much as I lovesitting around arguing with you—"

"Fang, _drop it._ "

" _Max._ " Fang's voice was harsh enough to shut me up. "Did you forget that I can _disappear?_ "

Ah. Yes, that.

This threw a huge, stupid wrench in my plan. No matter what way I sliced it, Fang was right: with his new skill, he could slip in and out of Goodchurch's place _much_ easier than even I could.

"Fine," I conceded. When he looked _way_ too happy with himself, I added, " _But—_ I'm coming as lookout."

"You need to stay behind."

"I _need_ to make sure you don't get your ass kicked."

Fang gritted his teeth. "We already lost Angel."

"And I'm not going to lose you too!"

"You need to make sure they're safe!" he thundered.

Well, that quieted me down again. Angel was my baby, that was true. I'd changed her diapers, fed her bottles, potty trained her, and taught her to walk, fight, and fly. Because of that, she'd always be special to me, but it wasn't like she was only mine. She was Fang's, too. She was the whole flock's.

I thought of Gazzy losing his sibling, of Nudge losing the sister she'd shared a room with all those years, of Iggy losing the little girl he'd taken for ice cream the day before.

I thought of Fang—the only one who'd even marginally shared the role of parenting her with me—losing the one person in the world his icy exterior _always_ melted for.

We were nose-to-nose, both fuming, both too stubborn to give in. This close, I could see clearly that the muscles of his face were strained against what was, unquestionably, a smothered look of fear and pain. The tiny, barely visible freckles that speckled the bridge of his nose in the summer had faded with the warmth and the sun.

Another branch broke behind us. This time, it was Iggy poking his way through the trees.

"Sorry, Ig," I mumbled. We'd managed to keep our voices soft enough that the rest of the flock wouldn't hear us, but Iggy was a completely different story. Especially with this new sonar he had going on.

"I've got it under control here," Iggy said. "I get it—I was still a liability, before. But now…"

"Iggy, you were never a _liability._ "

Iggy waved his hand vaguely, obviously not believing me but also not seeming to care. "Whatever. What I'm saying is, I can protect them."

I looked from Fang to Iggy and back to Fang again.

Fang looked at me with unease.

"Iggy…" I began, but I wasn't sure how to continue. _I don't trust you? I'm afraid? You're blind?_

"I'm serious!" Iggy insisted. "What do I have to do to prove it to you?"

Fang met my eyes for a split second.

Then, before I could stop him from doing something stupid, he threw a punch.

Iggy dodged the blow with impossible accuracy. Once he was out of the way, he grabbed Fang by the wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and crushed him against the maple tree face first.

Having proven his point (and probably knowing that Fang could break him in half), he released Fang instantly. Fang recovered quickly, looking mildly surprised but not at all like Iggy had just slammed him into a tree. Iggy was breathing heavily through his nose in the way he always did when he was trying to keep his cool.

"We good here?" he asked gruffly.

Fang nodded once and grunted some sort of response.

Since this entirely and whole-heartedly seemed to be a Y-chromosome thing, I just shrugged and uttered, "Uh, sure." Iggy pinning Fang, however unsuspecting Fang had been, was a good enough argument in his favor for me.

"Then I'll see you two when you get back," Iggy said. He turned and started to pluck his way back through the forest. "Don't get yourselves killed."

* * *

"This is a terrible idea," I whispered.

Fang and I were kneeling in an oak tree in the park across from Goodchurch's place. He was peering through the tree cover with a contemplative look on his face. There were no signs of activity from the condominium, but since we weren't _imbeciles_ , we knew there was an army in there.

"God, this is so stupid," I said.

The plan we'd developed was shoddy at best, but it was also the only thing we could come up with: Fang would wait for somebody to approach the building. Once he was inside, he'd knock on the door to Goodchurch's place, wait until somebody answered, and slip in undetected. He'd navigate as stealthily as he could through the condo, searching for signs of intel, taking whatever he could manage.

A bit of experimenting had proven that anything Fang touched would also turn invisible, although it was exhausting for him. Just walking around with his façade up took a lot out of him. He refused to admit it out loud, but I knew him well enough to tell.

"We shouldn't do this," I said, trying to stifle the nerves I felt, "Fang, there has to be another—"

"Max." Fang's voice was the deep, calming baritone I knew as well as my own. I felt myself relax as it washed over me. "I'm going in there. It'll be two minutes tops once I'm actually in his place. In and out, totally undetected, and then we'll head back to the island."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. He didn't look nervous in the slightest, and I knew I needed to learn to trust him. When it came to Fang, he was physically the strongest, mentally the sharpest, but emotionally the most closed off. This made him, as you all know, nearly impossible to read. Except for me. And now, the only thing to read was confidence.

 _Trust him,_ I told myself. _You can't do this all by yourself. You have to trust him._

"Okay," I breathed. "Okay. Yeah. Okay. Go."

Fang met my gaze. "It's going to be fine. Tell me the plan."

"You're going to go in. If you're not out in five minutes, I start to panic."

" _No_. If I'm not out in five minutes, you get within earshot. If it sounds like I'm in trouble—"

"I come crashing in and start raising hell."

Fang sighed. "Yeah."

"Go," I said again, nudging his shoulder. "Before I change my mind."

Fang nodded and reached out his fist. I stacked mine, we tapped, and then he took off into the air.

"Five minutes!" I reminded him just loudly enough so he could hear.

Fang slipped into the building almost immediately when another tenant came back from a jog. I started my silent clock and begged the universe to return him to me unscathed.

Then I waited.

And waited.

 _And waited._

Four and a half minutes passed and somehow, I knew something was wrong. _Really_ wrong.

I eyed the condo, checked the exits, dialed in my hearing. _C'mon, Fang. Any second now would be great._

After about thirty seconds, I unfurled my wings a fraction, ready to say _screw getting within earshot_ and insert myself into whatever situation was going down in the building, but Fang chose that moment to explode through the glass door of the sliding door to the balcony.

Let me tell you something. I've seen Fang beaten to shit twelve ways to Sunday. When Fang went all out in a fight, he went _all out_. So when I say that he emerged from that door looking like the angel of death, I mean it. He'd been bloody before, but the thick shards of glass didn't help—he looked like something out of a horror film.

He stumbled to a stop next to me and folded his wings back in. Above us, Erasers were streaming from the building, guns held at the ready. We didn't exactly blend. They'd be on top of us in seconds.

"Fang—"

"Fine," he forced out in lieu of explanation. Something was tucked under his arm, but I didn't have time to ask. "We have to—"

"On it." I leaped into the air and snapped my wings open. "Grab on."

Fang's hand found my ankle in a death grip, and he grunted an okay. Then we were traveling upwards of two hundred miles an hour through the stratosphere.

Since I wasn't a moron, I'd learned from Gazzy and I's crash landing at the Martinezes—once we were over Thompson Island, I slowed up to a normal pace, swooped low in descent, and let Fang open his bloody wings so he could float to the ground.

When he got there, he collapsed to his knees and groaned loudly.

In seconds I was at his side, raking my eyes over his tattered clothes, his bloodied palms, the blatant look of agony on his face.

"Jesus, Fang—"

"I'm alright," he gasped.

"Don't you dare! I am _not_ riding in an ambulance again. Where are you hurt?" I glanced again at the rips in his clothes from the glass of the slider and sucked in a deep breath. "I mean, besides everywhere."

Fang let out a little hiss of pain and fell back into the dirt, bracing himself with his arms behind him as he slowly straightened out his legs. "Fucking Eraser got me."

I opened my mouth to ask where, but it wasn't necessary: about halfway up his right thigh, a slit about six inches long had been cut through his jeans. And his skin. And his muscle.

Before I could stop it, "Oh, shit," came flying out of my mouth.

Fang glanced down and grit his teeth. "Not good." It was a grim statement instead of a question.

I considered lying. But what good would that do? "No," I agreed. "No, _very_ not good."

I could downplay it all I wanted, but Fang was seriously injured. Blood was staining the dirt below us. _Shit, shit, shit. Stop the bleeding, Max. Stop the bleeding_.

"Okay," I breathed, trying not to dissolve into panic. "Okay, hang on, give me your belt."

With difficulty, he and I extracted the belt from his waist. I wrapped it around his thigh above the wound and cinched it as tightly as I could manage.

Fang roared in pain and jerked away from me. "Sorry! Sorry, sorry—!"

 _Stabilize him. Stabilize him, then get him to the flock, and everything will be fine—_

"Not that tight!"

"Fang, you're going to bleed out!"

"Rather that than lose the leg!" He loosened the belt by a couple of notches.

"What the hell _happened_ in there?" I demanded. Fang didn't answer me. "Fang! What—"

"What's going on?"

Iggy's voice cut through the air. I could've kissed him. "Iggy—need you over here—Fang's hurt—"

"I told you to not get yourselves killed!"

"Iggy, I'm _serious_!"

Iggy, who could no doubt smell—or even taste—the blood in the air, dropped into the dirt next to me and rifled through Fang's pack in search of our first aid kit. "Jesus, Fang, what happened?"

"Eraser got me."

I snorted. I shot him a look that said, _Way to downplay it, moron._

Iggy reached down and prodded the wound thoughtfully. I've got a tough stomach, but something about seeing Iggy's blood-covered fingers halfway in Fang's thigh was enough to make me nauseous. I turned my back to them just as Fang hissed again.

I thought back to the day Ari shredded Fang to pieces. The scars would never fade—I caught a glimpse of them every time Fang changed his shirt. And _every single time,_ I found myself reliving those feelings of terror that I was going to lose him and the feelings of absolute _rage_ at Ari for mutilating him the way he did.

But this was different, I had to remind myself. Ari was dead. Fang was conscious. He hadn't lost nearly as much blood as he had that day.

 _Okay, but you also have no way to transfuse him with more, you idiot,_ my brain told me.

 _Shut up,_ I thought back.

Talking to myself? Just another day, folks. As you were.

After a while, Iggy said, "Well, you're definitely not going to bleed out."

I swear, every bit of air in me whooshed out in a giant exhale. I spun around and appraised the two of them. The wound didn't seem to be bleeding as much. Iggy was dusting his fingers over the first aid kid supplies trying to decide where he wanted to start.

"At least not from this," Iggy added, dumping antiseptic onto Fang's wound. Fang's face paled a couple of shades. "They were probably going for your femoral artery, but they missed. But why are you bleeding from _everywhere_?"

"How can you—"

"Tell? I don't know," Iggy said dismissively. "Doesn't matter right now. What else happened?"

I watched as Iggy skillfully ripped open gauze after gauze and unrolled an ace bandage. I grabbed the antiseptic and started trying to dab the rest of Fang's wounds. Thankfully, they seemed to be clotting off on their own.

"Fang here thought it'd be a great idea to go smashing through a glass sliding door," I said in a patronizing voice.

Iggy groaned. "What are you, a moron? Those are almost an inch thick!"

Fang bent his knee so Iggy could bandage more efficiently. His jaw was set so tightly I was concerned he'd break it. "Didn't really have a ton of options."

"You could've killed yourself, you idiot!"

Fang motioned to the ground behind him. A MacBook lay in the dirt there. "Got Goodchurch's laptop." He closed his eyes and swayed a bit. Only then did I notice how pale he was getting.

"Lay down," I demanded. When he didn't argue, I knew it was bad.

"Hey," I said, slapping him on the arm. His eyes were still open but heavy-lidded and out of focus. "Keep your eyes open. You can't sleep right now."

"It should be alright," Iggy said from next to me. He finished taping Fang's leg and leaned back on his heels. His hands were still covered in blood. "He probably _should_ sleep."

"Are you sure?"

With those freaky new senses of his, he must've sensed my anxiety.

"Max." His voice was a breathy mix between frustration, exhaustion, and empathy. "He's stable. We just need to keep him hydrated and let him relax for a while, replete his blood volume."

" _He_ is right here," Fang growled from the dirt, but the usually quite defined bite to his voice was long gone.

"Stop talking," I ordered. "How long do you think?" I asked Iggy.

"At least a couple of days."

"Bullshit," Fang slurred. He tried to shove himself to sitting but got halfway there and looked like he was going to puke. I pushed him back toward the ground.

" _Not_ bullshit. Back at the hospital, you got three units of blood, three thousand calories, and sterile dressing changes. Here, you'll be getting granola bars and lukewarm water and shoddy medical care at the very best. We need to play our cards right here."

We were still pretty far from where we'd set up camp. Fang didn't look like he was in any condition to be upright, let alone walk, but our options were sort of limited.

"I can get up," Fang said, reading my mind. "Just give me a hand."

Together, Iggy and I got Fang to standing. Each of us took a side. Since Iggy was almost a foot taller than me, we were quite the uneven support system, but it was good enough. Fang was too weak to help us much—we essentially dragged him to camp.

Gazzy had succumbed to sleep. Nudge, on the other hand, was wide awake and immediately started to fret once she laid eyes on Fang.

"Oh my God, what _happened?_ " she shrieked.

"Shhhh!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I just—Fang— _what happened?_ "

We had one blanket to our name, and it was typically tucked over and around the younger kids during the cooler nights. Gazzy was tucked comfortably underneath it, but Fang was the priority.

"Nudge, grab some shirts, lay them on the ground. We need the blanket, we have to cover Fang with it."

Gazzy didn't budge when she pulled it off of him. I recounted the story as well as I could as I double checked the ace bandage around Fang's leg, made sure none of his other wounds were bleeding, and then settled against the trunk of a tree next to him and grabbed the laptop.

I was so jittery I could barely pull the thing open. This was it—hopefully, the key to solving this once and for all was in here somewhere. And I wouldn't rest until I found it.

I cracked open the screen and wiped off some of the dust and blood that had somehow made its way there. _Enter your password,_ it said.

I rubbed my hands together. "Nudge?"

She looked up from where she'd been leaning over Fang. Bits of leaves and sticks stuck out of her unruly hair—I'd have to help her brush it out, whenever that became an important thing again.

"Password," I said.

Nudge smiled for the first time in way too long. And it was a real Nudge smile, too—the kind that illuminated her entire face.

"Game on," she said.

* * *

 _A/N: Hi, everyone!_

 _Still writing, promise. Just trying to be meticulous in my planning going forward._

 _Here's another reminder to check out **Maximum Rewrite** by **kiboeme**. Just 'cause I love it so much and I'm hopeful a bigger following will encourage them to update faster :)_

 _Thanks for the love. xo_


	18. EIGHTEEN

EIGHTEEN

It took Nudge about five seconds to log into the computer. After placing her hand on the laptop screen and closing her eyes, she hit a few keys, pressed enter, and _voilà_ , we were in.

"What was the password?"

"Laura 1948," Nudge said. She turned her head to one side, closed her eyes again, and frowned. "I think that's his mom."

My heart sank. If we knew anything about Gideon Goodchurch, it was that he valued his family—his mom and sisters—above everything else. He'd talked about them in the newspaper article, and he'd begged us to leave him alone in an attempt to keep them safe.

Now, he was dead. They'd lost him forever. Not only that—but who knew if Scythe would go after _them_? What had he done with Goodchurch's body? Would his family ever know the truth of why he died, be able to give him a proper burial, come to terms with his death?

All unanswerable questions. Because of me.

He was dead because of me.

"It's not your fault, Max," Nudge said softly, obviously reading my face.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "Just start looking."

Nudge started rifling through countless folders, most of which were documents of little to no importance. I surveyed my flock: Gazzy hadn't stirred. Next to me, Fang had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Iggy was fanning life into the fire he must've banked earlier.

"What exactly are we hoping to find?" he asked. He sneezed loudly as the fire belched a thick cloud of ash.

"I'm not totally sure," I admitted after a minute. "Anything, really. An address would be fantastic." I leaned over to peep at the screen. Nudge was still tapping in commands. "Or another name, I guess. Anything that can point us in the right direction."

"There's _got_ to be something. I mean, there's a _million_ files here," Nudge said. Her hands were positively _flying_ over the keys. Where she'd learned to type so fast, I had no clue, but I wasn't complaining.

"Well, our time might be a _bit_ limited," Iggy said meaningfully, casting me a sightless, sideways glance. He was obviously referencing my expiration date and not being very slick about it. "Fang's going to need to recover for a few days, so we'll _really_ be pushing it—"

"We're fine," I snapped, subconsciously smoothing my hair over the back of my neck. "Everything's fine."

God, I could kill him. I eyed Nudge, ready to spew off some excuse as to why we had a deadline, but she was too involved in her search to pay attention to us. Crisis averted—for now.

Iggy bit his lip and sighed heavily. "Okay, Max. If you say so."

Nudge made a little noise of excitement and looked up at me with big, beaming eyes. "I got it, I got it, I got it!"

"Got what?" Iggy said.

Nudge turned the screen to me and tapped it a couple of times. "Address!"

She'd found a gold mine of information—an entire folder dedicated to bank statements. It was all gibberish to me, but every single one had the same address at the top.

I grabbed Fang's backpack and extracted our laptop, thanking the universe for blessing us with a government-tier computer that was both untraceable and _always_ connected to the internet.

I wasn't as good as Nudge, but I was at least capable of pulling up Google Maps and typing in the address.

And muffled a scream of frustration with the back of my arm.

"What?" Nudge asked.

"It's an Applebee's."

Iggy snorted and sat back down next to Fang. "Of course it is."

"No," Nudge said, shaking her head. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Want to see for yourself?"

"No, but look," she said, tapping Goodchurch's computer screen. "These are from recently. Look, this one's from last week."

"Okay," I said impatiently. "But that doesn't change that it's an Applebee's."

"No _duh,_ Max. But remember where the Institute was?"

Oh. Huh.

The Institute had been intricately woven into New York City's sewer system. Could Vector be the same?

We'd have to find out.

I was just considering the pros and cons of scoping it out without Fang when Iggy muttered, "Ah, shit, he's bleeding again."

Well, that had the ol' mutant heart a-racing. I was on my feet and at Fang's side faster than you could say _hemorrhage._ " _What_?"

"Relax, Max. He's fine. I just have to change the dressing."

He certainly did. Fang's jeans were saturated with deep red blood right where Iggy had dressed the wound. With unnerving accuracy, Iggy unbuttoned Fang's pants and pulled them to his knees, leaving him in a pair of faded old boxers. Then he rifled through his backpack and pulled out more gauze and antiseptic.

"Shouldn't it have stopped by now?"

Iggy sighed deeply and peeled back the old dressing. It was still bleeding but at a wayslower pace. "Max, it's not like they _scratched_ him."

"I'm aware, _Iggy_ ," I hissed, "but with our healing and the first aid you did—"

"—it'll still take a little while to close superficially. Especially with how he kicks in his sleep sometimes. Jeez, Max, take a chill pill."

I cupped my hand around Fang's pale cheek. He was cold to the touch and his jaw was slack—totally out for the count. Usually when he slept, he was still a bit guarded, a bit terse, so the look on his face was a dead giveaway that he was unconscious.

I sighed and leaned back on my heels, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. Iggy started to rebandage Fang's leg.

So our next step was to scope out the Applebee's. But when would that happen? It would take Fang at least a day to be able to walk, a couple of days to be able to fight or fly or exert much energy. I could bring one of the flock with me, but that ran the risk of losing _another_ one of us somehow.

It was bizarre. Here we were, a three-minute flight from the mainland with a huge lead, but we couldn't act on it. Not only would Iggy and I more than likely drop Fang into the Atlantic, but, even though I refused to admit it, Fang was the best fighter and the most calculating out of all of us. He played an absolutely essential role in our sextet.

But we were running low on time. Like—dangerously low on time. Even if I wasn't going to expire, it was only a matter of time before Vector somehow hunted us down and skinned us.

There was a groan from behind me. When I spun around, I saw Fang trying to brace himself up on his forearms with a stifled expression of pain on his face.

"Oh, no you don't," I hissed, leaning forward and pushing his chest back down.

He made a face at me but didn't open his eyes. "I'm not _incapacitated._ "

I snorted. "You were about thirty seconds ago."

"Fang, are you okay?" Nudge asked from her spot peering over the laptop. Her face was tight with concern.

"Fine," he said back through his teeth.

His eyelids fluttered a few times before opening. He looked down his body at where Iggy was finishing taping the new dressing.

"Bled through it already?"

Iggy shrugged. "They got you pretty good. Looks like it's starting to scab off now. You should feel less like a corpse tomorrow morning."

Fang puffed some air out through his nostrils and drew a hand to his temple. "Can't believe they got me."

"What _happened_ in there?" Iggy asked.

"Not now," I chastised. Iggy shot me a look. I shot him one that he'd never see right back.

And I meant it. As desperate as I was to know what exactly had happened in that condo, I was more desperate for Fang to rest and heal. Getting him angry and worked up would _not_ expedite that process—he'd be stuck awake all night perseverating on it and reworking over and over in his head how he could've avoided being hurt.

Fang was safe, and stable. We were _all_ safe.

Except for Angel.

That cut through me pretty deep.

"Is there water anywhere?" Fang mumbled.

Thankful for something to distract me, I rifled through my bag and found a bottle. We were running low—I'd have to head into the city tomorrow and pick some more up.

Iggy helped Fang sit up.

"Feel like trash," Fang said.

"You _look_ like trash," I said.

"Thanks."

"Maybe you should go back to sleep," I snapped.

"Maybe you should stop telling me what to do," he muttered back. He took the bottle of water from me, but he was shaking so badly that he couldn't even drink from it.

Gently, I took it back from him and helped him bring it to his lips. He shot me a look as if daring me to say something, but I was way too worried to rag on him. He must've seen it on my face, because he relaxed a bit and let me help him.

"Fang," Nudge said in a tiny voice, "are you sure you don't need, you know…" She eyed Iggy nervously before adding, "A real doctor?"

Iggy guffawed. "A _real_ doctor? What, suddenly I'm not good enough?"

"I'm fine," Fang said. "Feel better already."

I knew Fang well enough to see through his obvious lie, but I also knew him well enough to see that he would be okay with a little bit of rest and wound care. The smaller cuts that covered his body had stopped bleeding entirely, and as nervous as I was, his leg wound _did_ look better.

He lowered himself back to the ground. His lips were pale and set in a thin line.

"You guys get anything from the laptop?"

Nudge opened her mouth to answer, but I glowered at her and said, "Working on it."

Fang's eyes fluttered shut. "Wake me up when you find something."

"Sure thing."

He knew I was lying, but he must've been too exhausted to argue. Within moments, his breathing evened out and he was asleep and totally out for the count.

Iggy leaned back on his heels and sighed heavily, wiping his hands on his thighs.

"So," he said after a moment, shattering the weary silence that had settled over us. "An Applebee's?"

* * *

I must've had half a dozen different nightmares that night. Not visions or a brain explosion—just regular, run-of-the-mill nightmares.

Well, run-of-the-mill for me. Maybe not you normal folk.

In one, Iggy fought to stop the bleeding on Fang's leg but couldn't, leaving us all to watch as it turned ashy and grey below the tourniquet. Before it festered and killed Fang, I had to saw it off with our prey-cleaning knife.

In another, I caught a glimpse of Angel's wings in the surf. I sprinted to the edge of the water and threw myself in, but by the time I reached her, she was cold, pale, and dead.

The others continued on in fragments like this. Potential worst-case-scenarios, grueling injuries, fights to the death with Erasers. When my subconscious finally forced me awake, I found myself gasping for breath and covered in dirt—probably from tossing and turning.

I shoved myself into a seated position tried to force some air into my lungs.

Nudge, who'd been upgraded to watch duty in light of Fang's recent mauling, was squinting over at me from across the banked fire.

My stomach twisted. What was I supposed to say to her? What on earth could I offer her? Words of encouragement? A fake smile? All of a sudden, the weight of her scrutinizing gaze felt like way too much.

"Go ahead," I sighed.

"Go ahead what?"

"Go ahead and tell me how much you hate me. How much you resent me for all of this, for keeping things from you, for being a terrible leader. How much I'm not your mom and can't tell you what to do."

The words came out of my mouth without permission. It was more vulnerable than I'd been in front of someone other than Fang or Iggy since the Beach Incident, but I was way too exhausted to care. I dumped my head into my hands, waiting for her to unload on me.

Instead, she was quiet. After what felt like an infinite silence, she stood up, walked around the fire, and sat down next to me close enough that our kneecaps touched.

"You know," she said in an uncharacteristically timid tone, "when I was younger, I never realized how hard it is to have responsibility."

My head jerked up at that. She was staring into the glowing coals with a thoughtful sort of look on her face.

" _What_?"

"I mean, not that I have a ton of responsibility," she said quickly, as if my surprised tone had been because she'd offended me. "But even just being on watch, it's like… everyone is depending on you to keep them safe while they sleep. That's a lot. I didn't realize that."

"Nudge, if it's too much—"

"That's not what I mean, Max. Shut up."

"What—"

"Just let me talk, okay?"

Considering that Nudge had never, not once, asked for permission to talk, I geared up for what was sure to be a serious conversation.

She stood and plucked her way around flock member limbs and broken tree branches before settling in the dirt next to me. She had one of Iggy's giant long-sleeved tees wrapped around her shoulders to protect from the wind, and she threw half of it around my shoulders and leaned into me before continuing.

"I never realized how hard it was to handle everything. I mean—you have to worry about keeping us all safe _all the time_. Even when we were little and couldn't do anything to protect ourselves. And you have to deal with every little problem that we have. Food and water. Shelter. Clothes. Money. Where we go next, how we stay hidden, how we stay alive. _Plus_ you have to worry about regular teenager stuff. Like, emotions. And hormones."

My eyes were threatening to fall out of my head. I just nodded, mostly because I wasn't sure what else to do.

"I'm almost fourteen and I don't even know what I'm doing. You were in charge, even back then, even _before_ then, and you made it look so easy. You taught us how to fight, how to fly. You raised Gazzy and Angel. You stood up for us to Jeb. You fixed all of our injuries and sang us lullabies. You _loved_ us through everything. Even when Gazzy broke the fridge and I ran my markers through the wash by accident."

The frozen breeze blew her hair from her face; the two of us hunkered closer together and pulled the overlong t-shirt tighter around our faces.

"I think about that a lot. Not the markers—everything else. And I think about real family. I mean," she made quotations with her fingers in the air, "'real family.' And whenever I think about it, I realize that I don't think I'd love a biological mom any more than I love you. I don't think it's possible. I mean, you're only three years older than me, but you're my mom. And you have been as long as I can remember."

It takes a lot to stun me speechless, but this did it.

It was nowhere near a speech, not by Nudge standards, but it was certainly a different tune than she'd been singing lately.

"I want to be like you," she said as she turned away. "I want to be strong, and brave, and smart, and confident. But I'm not any of those things," she said, shrugging. "I'm Nudge. I never shut up, I can't think on my feet, and I can barely take down an Eraser. And… it's my fault Angel's gone." She made a choking noise and started to cry softly into her hands.

There were so many things I wanted to say to her. I wanted to tell her she inspired me every single day. I wanted to tell her that her perspective on the world was beautiful, her ideas creative, her fighting just as sharp as her mind. I wanted to tell her that every single day, I strived to, in some way, be like Nudge. Just like I did with every single member of the flock. I wanted to tell her that it was not, in any way, her fault that Angel had been taken from us.

I wanted to tell her how much I loved her.

These were all fantastic topics for conversation: true, from the heart and reassuring to an insecure thirteen-year-old. Maybe they'd stop her tears, make her feel better, reassure her that something was okay in a world where almost everything was wrong.

I had every intention of calming her nerves. So imagine my surprise when what came out of my mouth was:

"I'm going to die in six days."

* * *

 _A/N: Wow, guys, I'm so sorry. Real life took precedence. I promise you—this story isn't going to go unfinished. Most of the end is drafted, and I'm WAY too dedicated to the plot. So don't worry about that._

 _Likewise, it may take me a while to finish it. But I promise you, I'm writing._

 _Short update, but I just wanted to remind you guys that I'm still here! Thank you for being patient, you all are so great. And thanks to everyone who PM'd / reviewed to check in on me._

 _xo_


	19. NINETEEN

NINETEEN

"Show me it again."

"Nudge—"

" _Max—_ "

"It's not going to just disappear, Nudge."

Nudge grabbed my arm surprisingly hard and jerked me toward her. Her eyes were a shade of no-nonsense I'd never seen them take on before; the shadows on her face made them look almost as dark as Fang's.

"Show. Me. It. Again."

I bit back a frustrated sigh and brushed my hair off my neck for the third time. I'd had to drag her away from the campsite almost immediately—Nudge was never good at keeping her voice down or keeping her cool in a crisis—and for the last five minutes she'd been cycling drastically through the five stages of grief.

Nudge's fingers dusted over the skin on the back of my neck, and I heard her stifle a nervous sound of some kind.

"I told you," I said gently, "we don't really know if it's for sure—"

"Well you certainly made it _sound_ that way!" she spat furiously. She started waving her arms around vaguely. "I pour my heart out to you, tell you how much I love you or whatever, and you hit me with, 'Oh, by the way, _I'm going to die in six days_?'"

"Nudge—"

"You were going to keep this from us?"

Her voice stopped me in my tracks. I took a second to look at her, _really_ look at her. Her cheeks were red with rage and shock, her eyes were full of tears, and her brows were furrowed into an expression of extreme panic.

 _Betrayal._ It registered somewhere in the back of my head. _You betrayed her._

"Nudge…"

"Don't 'Nudge' me!"

"Listen to me," I said seriously. When she opened her mouth, I cut her off. "No _—listen_ to me."

She closed her mouth.

"We were just talking about responsibility. About making hard decisions. Sometimes, the right decision isn't the right thing. You guys deserve to know, that's true. But we need all of our focus on Vector, all of our energy dedicated to taking down Scythe. That's the most important thing."

" _You're_ the most important thing!" Nudge cried. The tears finally fell from her eyes. I felt my heart break. "Nothing's more important than _us;_ than _you_!"

"Sometimes, the greater good—"

"The _greater good_? The _GREATER GOOD—_?"

" _Nudge—"_

"You sound like _JEB_!"

" _Keep your voice down_!" I hissed.

"What, so Gazzy doesn't hear?" she said sarcastically. "You're just going to let him find out when you drop dead?"

My heart broke even further. My stomach threatened to empty itself. I pushed the feeling away and swallowed the feeling of nausea.

"If it comes to it, I'll tell him."

"You won't even know if it 'comes to it,' you idiot! Because you'll be _dead_!"

I shook my head and turned away from her to peer through the darkness. I forced some deep breaths in through my nose and tried to go to my happy place, which, at this point, was pretty much Anywhere But Here, USA.

I'd never seen Nudge like this; she was _furious_ with me. And hurt, and terrified, and in shock, and about a million other terrible things.

The worst part was: I couldn't blame her. If the roles were reversed, I would've been the same way.

Tears started to pool in my eyes. Just then, soft footsteps approached behind us; I didn't have to turn around to know it was Iggy.

"What's going on over here?" he asked with a hint of sleep still in his voice. "Nudge, if you don't keep it down, you're going to wake up the entire city."

"Oh, _you know_ ," Nudge fired back icily. "Max was just telling me about how she's _going to die_!"

It was impossible to see in the moonlight, but I'd known Iggy long enough to know he was blanching. He cleared his throat.

"Uh," he said, but then couldn't continue.

"Yeah. Surprise. Except _you_ already knew, because she _told_ you. And she was just going to let the rest of us figure it out _later._ You know, after she was _dead_!"

I couldn't even argue with her. It was entirely too much.

"Nudge," Iggy said in that special voice he only ever reserved for her, and he reached an arm to touch her shoulder delicately, "listen—"

Nudge shook his arm off and made a noise of disgust. "Don't touch me."

That was all I could take. Without saying a word, I stood up, brushed myself off, and jumped into the sky, throwing my wings open to catch a sea breeze and surge upward into the blackness above me. Maybe I'd be able to breathe up there.

"What?" Nudge called after me in a shrill voice. "Now you're just going to run away?"

Her words cut through me like a knife, sawing me open, leaving me to bleed all over the Atlantic.

I didn't look back. But that didn't stop me from hearing Iggy's word of comfort followed by Nudge—loving, optimistic, ray-of-sunshine Nudge—bursting into hysterical sobs.

* * *

When I took off from Thompson Island, I had no idea where I was headed, just that I needed to _get the hell out of there._ In minutes, I was flying high over the city. The night was pitch black—a new moon—an uncharacteristic stroke of luck that meant nobody would be spotting me tonight.

By the time I'd cleared my head enough to think, I was miles above one of the bigger parts of the city. Cars zipped by despite the late hour. Pedestrians and commuters, the size of ants, raced along the busy sidewalks.

Normal life was carrying on despite the madness that had overtaken mine. For a moment, I felt insignificant, unimportant. Like what we were doing meant nothing. Like nobody cared about us.

I sighed and let my gaze drop down to the city below me.

And immediately recognized where I was.

I was flying over the street that was stamped on all of Vector's statements. Which meant that the Applebee's I could see glimmering in the darkness was, in fact, _the_ Applebee's.

Since I'm me—impulsive, hot-headed, go-get-'em Max—I angled my body toward the nearest dark alleyway and careened down like a missile without a second thought.

 _Okay,_ I thought to myself as I dusted off myself off and tucked my wings tightly into my back. _Get in, do some recon, get out. Make friends with the bartender. Get him to spill. And if things go south, get outta there, Jack._

I know what you're thinking: that's _your elaborate plan, Max_? Allow me to reiterate that I was emotionally unstable, totally fed up with the wild goose chase we'd been sent on, and slated to self-destruct in less than a week.

At this point, I was ready to decimate Vector or die trying.

If I was going to pull this off, I was going to need to be very, very, _very_ convincing. So I did what any girl would do—I wandered into the CVS next door and bought some mascara to smear onto my eyelashes, pulled my hair out of its braid and shook it out so it looked as luscious and wavy as possible, slapped a bit of color into my cheeks, and pulled the neck of my long-sleeve as far down my sternum as it would go. Then I took a deep breath in and pushed my way back into the cold before stepping into the dimmed lights of Applebee's.

I was pretty sure it was a weekday. The clock on the wall told me it was just after eleven o'clock, and by the looks of the place, it had been a slow shift. The bartender, who couldn't have been older than twenty-one, was filling a glass with beer from the tap. When he heard my footsteps approaching, he turned… and proceeded to give me the dreaded up-down.

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. The _honey, you're a snack_ look. The _nice bum, where ya from?_ eyes. You know, the look that makes you feel more like an entrée than a human being? And not in the Eraser way, if you know what I mean.

Normally, I'd feel inclined to punch this guy's lights out. Instead, I swallowed my discomfort and fear and sauntered up to the bar, slid onto the high-back chair, and watched carefully as the bartender slid the brimming glass of beer at the only other patron in sight: an overweight man in a baseball cap at the opposite end of the bar.

I eyed the drink menu carefully and pretended like I'd done it a million times before. Instead of, you know, _never._

The bartender found his way to me with a stupid grin plastered on his face. His hair was long—not as long as Fang's, but longer than most guys seemed to wear it nowadays—and his eyes were a startling shade of blue; almost like Iggy's, only functional.

I was totally thrown off-guard and felt entirely like I wanted to run the hell away as fast as I could. Instead, I offered the flirtiest smile I could manage, propped my elbows on the bar, and dropped my chin onto my hands. I could only hope it didn't look as wildly unnatural as it felt.

"Hi," I said in my Ella Martinez voice.

"Howdy," the bartender said. His name tag said _Jamie_ and his voice was deep and thick with a Boston accent. His eyes flicked from my hairline to my torso and then back up again. "How we doin' tonight?"

Once again, I found myself at a total loss as to what to say. I hadn't planned a thing; instead, I'd walked in, batted my eyelashes, and hoped he'd slide me a drink with no interaction.

Yeah. What does that tell you about my social awareness?

Luckily, I seemed to have developed a knack for lying on the spot. A groan slinked out from between my lips. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Jamie smiled crookedly and popped an eyebrow. "Try me."

Then came the lies.

"So I'm at work earlier, right?" My mind searched for a career that would indicate that I was _definitely_ over twenty-one. "I'm a kindergarten teacher down in Southie, tough population—"

"Might know the place," he said. He snapped his fingers a few times. "James Condon? Down on D Street, yeah?"

"That's the one."

"Oof." He winced. "That's gotta be a doozy, huh? I hear it ain't the best place to teach."

I forced a sarcastic smile. "What can I say? I just _love_ what I do."

Jamie laughed. It was a nice sound. Deep, full. It made his eyes look even brighter.

"Listen," he said conspiratorially. He leaned in and used his hand to stop his voice from traveling. "In my bar, nobody's gotta lie. You can always tell it like it is."

I laughed as seductively as possible and ran a hand through my hair. "Gee," I said sarcastically. "Who needs therapy when there's Applebee's?"

He chuckled. "Okay. So… continue?"

"Continue?"

"Your day," he said with another half-laugh. "You were busy blowin' my mind with your story."

"Oh. Right. Yeah—like I said, I'm a kindergarten teacher, and—"

" _Whoa_ ," said Jamie. I caught his gaze, which was fixated somewhere directly in the center of my chest. I almost clocked him, but then I remembered what I'd done—purposefully tugged my shirt down to the point of stretching it out.

"Hey, buddy," I said lightly in the most teasing voice I could manage, "my eyes are up here."

Jamie's eyes flitted up to me, then back down to my chest, and then back to me. A split second passed in which his cheeks flooded with redness and his eyes revealed a bit of a pained expression, indicating he knew he'd been caught in the act. I was waiting for him to trip over his words, spill out an apology, and ask me my drink order—hopefully without carding me—when he shook his head and waved his hands.

"No, no, I'm—I'm not—I would never," he stuttered. "I have four sisters and two nieces, trust me, I'm not—"

I let a playful laugh slip from between my lips. "Hey, it's okay, I'm just—"

Jamie shook his head, seeming to search for words. "No," he said again after a moment. "I was lookin' at—where did you—" He took a deep breath and shook his head a little more forcefully, as if to clear it. "That—that scar you got. What the hell _happened_? I've never seen anything like it."

Oh. _That._

I could've lied easily. Congenital heart disease. Car accident when I was a kid. Sudden cardiac arrest during a high school basketball game.

Instead, what came out of my betraying mouth was, "I don't like to talk about it."

Jamie's eyebrows folded in sympathy and he nodded. "Forget I even asked. Wicked sorry. Jesus, I'm a douche. Listen, what can I get you to drink? On me, for being such a jackass."

I laughed and ordered the only thing I knew for sure existed—a rum and Coke, Jeb's personal favorite drink. After all the awkwardness and the obvious flirting, I wasn't surprised when Jamie didn't ask me for ID, but I still had to do an internal victory cheer.

Jamie checked in on his other patron and I let my mind wander.

When did Vector take up residence here? Nudge and I hadn't gone back far enough in the files to find out. It was clear that whoever owned the restaurant had to be in on the secret—the bank statements were clearly addressed to this exact location. Was the entire Applebee's corporation involved, or was it only this store?

I watched Jamie methodically mix the drink and contemplated what on earth I was possibly going to ask him, what he could possibly know about the evil lair that maybe lurked beneath his place of employment.

He looked over his shoulder as he shook the drink. "You're thinkin' too hard. Gonna need a couple of these, huh?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said nervously. "Work in the morning."

He shrugged and poured the drink over a glass of ice. "Maybe you're gonna be sick."

I paused for dramatic effect. "Maybe." He slid the drink across the bar at me and garnished it with a lime. "You worked here long?"

"Oh, man, _too_ long. This used to be my old man's restaurant, actually," Jamie said. He pointed to a black and white photo on the wall. Sure enough, the exact same building stood there, but instead of the gaudy, light-up _Applebee's_ sign, there was a classier, more old-fashioned one that said _O'Finnegan's Irish Pub._

"Jamie O'Finnegan, huh? What's your middle name—Glasgow?"

"Ha-ha, very funny," Jamie deadpanned with a smile. "Place was open for years, but then Applebee's came around and offered him a deal that he couldn't possibly refuse." He shrugged again. "I ragged on him for a long time for selling out, but it secured him and my ma's retirement without a second thought."

My heart started racing in that way it always did when I wasn't sure if I was near a huge lead or a major letdown. I just cocked my head to the side and said, "Mmm?"

"Mmm," Jamie said back emphatically with a grin. "Guy who bought us out really wanted to open an Applebee's, I guess. Not even corporate—a franchise guy, some no-name John Smith type. Thought it'd be his golden ticket. I think my old man told him it wasn't a great idea—who the hell says they're jonesin' for some Applebee's, you know?—but he wouldn't take no for an answer. Who's laughing now, eh?"

 _Holy shit._

Bingo.

"What's his name?" I blurted.

Jamie shook his head. "Don't know. Never comes around. Guy's gotta be so filthy rich that he doesn't have to do shit—he just sends out his little minions to do his work for him."

I tried to figure out a way to navigate the conversation without knowing what _corporate_ and _franchise_ meant.

"Weird."

"I don't ask questions," said Jamie with a little tilt of his head. "They gave me a pretty nice deal, letting me wait tables all through high school, and then finally letting me head the bar when I turned twenty-one. Forty hours a week, sometimes more. Prices are jacked 'cause we're in the city, plenty of foot traffic."

"Not too shabby," I agreed. "Must've been a big overhaul, though, redesigning this place."

Jamie chuckled and shook his head. "You have no idea. When we first started reno, we sprung a _huge_ water leak in the basement when the DPH came—had to do major work down there. Took _ages_. Can't imagine why; it's not anything special down there. New walk-in freezer's pretty nice, though, so it all worked out."

Construction in the basement. Took ages. Not sure why.

 _Hello._

"When was this?" I asked.

"Oh, God, couldn't tell you," said Jamie. "Some years back. But enough about me—"

"No!" I said a bit too quickly. Jamie quirked an amused smile. I forced a nervous giggle out. "I mean—I like hearing about this. I… like hearing you talk?"

God, I sounded like a robot. I was one misstep from totally blowing this—but somehow, Jamie didn't miss a beat.

"I'm flattered, really. But there ain't much more to tell. I'd rather hear about _you_." He looked pointedly at my drink. "What, you buy this just to stare at it?"

I had _not_ prepared for this, and I was in no mood to try to fraternize with this guy. What I needed was information, and in order to get that, I needed more time to get under his skin.

And in order to do _that—_ I needed to drink.

I'd had alcohol exactly once in my life. I was twelve. Jeb had left his bottle of rum on the table after pouring his nightly drink, and Fang and I had decided we should know what all the fuss was about. I threw up immediately upon taking the first sip but pressed on when Fang seemed unfazed.

It ended about as well as you might imagine.

I forced a sip of the drink into my mouth and swallowed it—and almost ralphed all over the table.

I shuddered and stuck my tongue out. "Oh, God," I choked out.

Jamie laughed politely and pulled out the soda gun to top it off with more Coke. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Might've given you a big pour. Do I ever get to know your name?"

 _Ella. Ella. Ella. Ella._

Nope. What came out of my mouth was: "Max."

Blissfully, a rowdy party of five or six guys burst through the doors. Jamie looked up and, with an annoyed look, heaved a sigh and flipped his cleaning rag over his shoulder.

"Hold that thought," he said.

My heart started pounding in my chest. God, what was I _doing_? I'd taken off impulsively and left the flock with Fang totally out of commission, I'd wandered into the belly of the beast with no plan or protection, and I was _drinking alcohol._

Fang was going to kill me. Then he was going to cut my dead body into tiny pieces and bury them. And then he was going to spit on the grave.

Well, too bad. We needed this information, and I was already here.

I took a big pull from the drink.

 _Here goes nothing._

—

 _A/N: Still writing, folks. Didn't proofread this for shit—my apologies._

 _I know I left you all hanging for a while, but if you're still reading, I'd love to hear from you. Only got a couple of reviews chapter—I'm sure I lost a lot of people when I dropped off the face of the earth._

 _xo_


	20. TWENTY

TWENTY

About a half hour later, I was a rum and Coke and a half deep and way, _way_ too vulnerably drunk to be safe, by my own standards.

To be fair, _nothing_ about this was safe, underage drinking or not. I had not a _single_ true, government-approved identification of any kind to my name, and since the other patrons had since vacated, I was alone with a total stranger. To add to this, I was an undocumented _mutant_ _birdkid_ and very probably in the _exact_ location of the evil scientists who wanted to murder me.

Yeah. Think about _that_ the next time you think _you're_ in danger.

At the very least, this Jamie guy seemed benign enough, and I knew he had useful information stowed away in that brain of his. All of this was a little like playing Russian roulette, except there was only one blank. You know, instead of one _bullet._

Somehow, I'd had worse odds before.

"Big place you've got here," I managed. It was becoming very difficult to keep my words straight.

Jamie laughed. In my drunken stupor, I couldn't tell if it was real or not; his eyes didn't lighten a few shades and crinkle at the corners like Fang's did.

I took a second to look at him, _really_ look at him. Since I wasn't stupid, I could tell he was one of those guys who was good looking by all societal standards—and knew it. He was a few inches taller than me, probably five-ten or five-eleven, had an intricate tattoo that twisted up his forearm and disappeared under the shoved-up long sleeves of his shirt, and had broad shoulders that suggested he could do at least twenty-five push-ups.

Nothing about this wowed me. Despite his kind demeanor, all I could see was his ego. His hair was a kind of a dull shade of brown, his eyes were the color of dishwater, and there was absolutely no air of mystery about him. He was an open book and it seemed like kind of a boring one.

"Hellooooo? Max? Did I lose you?"

"Huh?"

"Where are your keys?" he said with amusement. "You officially lost privileges."

I snorted into my drink. It splashed all over my face and shirt and I frowned. Jamie stifled another laugh.

"You think I _drive_?" I blurted.

"Why wouldn't you? Unless… oh, God," he said with a fake look of concern. "Are you fifteen?"

Regular Max would've panicked. Regular Max would've catapulted over the bar, slammed his head into the dishwasher, and split as fast as she could.

Drunk Max knew no limits. She laughed and whispered conspiratorially, "Sixteen, actually."

Jamie laughed uproariously. He leaned over the bar and brushed one of his hands against mine. My breath hitched in my throat—what the hell was he—

"Wouldn't mind taking you out for a _real_ drink after this."

I felt myself blink once, twice. A feeling of dread filled me up all the way to the top. He might not mind—but I minded. A lot. Like, a _lot_.

"Oh."

Jamie leaned back and put his hands up, clearly catching me hesitation. "Sorry, sorry. Let's go back. What were you saying?"

Again, all I could manage was: "Uh…"

"Big place," he said. "It is, you're right. Basement's pretty spooky. Even after renovation." He waggled his eyebrows.

Bingo.

"I _love_ spooky."

Jamie cast a glance around the restaurant and then checked the clock. We were alone, and the bar was slated to close at one o'clock. It was quarter till.

"C'mon," he said. "I'll lock up early and give you the grand tour."

He walked over to the far wall and pulled a ring of keys from a hook there. Immediately, I knew my goal: get those freaking keys and get the _hell_ out.

As he flipped through the ring, I tried to memorize each aspect of the keys he chose. Unfortunately for me, every single one looked the same, and with my blurry vision there was _no_ way I'd be able to identify one against the other, so I stopped trying.

Jamie selected one carefully and locked the front and back doors of the joint before waving off the kitchen staff.

"Closing up early," he called. "'Night, fellas."

"Wow!" one of the guys called through the kitchen window. "Big Guy James loosening up, closing _fifteen minutes early_!" He let out a loud whoop. "Get a load of this, guys! Pretty girl bats her eyelashes at him, and he's abandoned all his morals, didn't think I'd see the day—"

"Hey, Sully, fuck off!" Jamie shot back. He flipped Sully the bird.

Sully grinned cheekily and tipped his filthy hat at me. "No offense, m'lady."

I curtseyed. Or—tried to. I almost fell over. Jamie reached a hand out to steady me and then seemed to think better of it.

"None taken, sir."

Sully chuckled and waved me off before disappearing into the back.

Jamie shook his head. "Bunch of clowns." He flipped through the keys again and picked another nonspecific silver one before gesturing toward a door in the back with his head. "C'mon."

We weaved through the back of the restaurant and down a set of winding stairs that dumped us in front of a large metal door. He unlocked it and led me into the dark, musty room that awaited beyond. I wrinkled my nose. If _this_ was up to code, I couldn't imagine what it looked like before.

Jamie saw my face and chuckled. "It's not much."

"No, no," I said. "I just have a… sensitive sense of smell." My S's were starting to sound _very_ snakelike.

If Jamie noticed, he didn't say so. "Keep the kegs over here," he said, pointing to the back corner. Several large metal cylinders sat there with hoses coming out of them. "Think the Guinness is kicked, actually—should probably change it or Megan'll kill me when she opens tomorrow."

He shoved his long sleeves further up his arms and stepped precariously around the kegs as if they were land mines before looking back at me and offering a half-smile. "Well, go ahead and take a walk around—you said you liked spooky. Let me know if you see any ghosts."

I almost fell over at my luck. He was giving me free reign of the place and _not paying attention._

Despite the liquor, I immediately went into reconnaissance mode. Flirting with a boy? Clueless. Small talk? Hopeless. Scouring for leads and secret doors? Put me in, coach.

The entire place was covered in dust, leading me to believe that the work that had been done was several years prior. This was good—it supported the idea that Vector really _was_ here somewhere.

I walked by shelves and shelves of overstocked goods—tubs of barbecue sauce, extra rolls of silverware, and jarred pickles. I marveled at all this extra food—the flock and I had spent months and months searching endlessly for our next meal and this place had nonperishables by the boatload.

After some navigating, I found the back wall of the room. It was made of shitty panelboard—a perfect material to hide a secret door around. I began knocking on the wood as quietly as possible, searching for something hollow, or a different color paint, or, you know, a _doorknob_ —anything that could potentially lead me to a different location.

Jamie must've heard me knocking, because he called out, "Is that a spirit or _you_ banging around over there?"

I tried to sound natural. "Just me. My dad was a carpenter and would have a stroke if he saw all this paneling down here."

"Didn't say it was gorgeous. It's an old building, alright? Lay off."

I made it all the way to the far corner and still had found nothing. I started up on the next wall, but after about ten feet, I came across a giant shelf full of more overstock.

I peered through the endless bottles of condiments and examined the paneling behind it. Nothing out of the ordinary, but what I really needed to do was get at it to continue my assessment.

And there it was—a gap in the baseboard. Only about half an inch, but it was enough. That _had_ to be it.

But I couldn't be totally sure. I needed to get at that wall.

The only question was how.

 _Think, Max. Think._

I rustled in my pocket in search of something of value to fling back there, like a twenty-dollar bill—but because I was a nervous-Nelly psychopath, I kept my money rolled up in the toe of my boot. No way I could get _that_ inconspicuously.

Some coins jingled in my jeans pocket and all at once, an idea came to me.

I dropped one of the coins loudly and kicked it under the shelving.

"Oh, shit," I muttered loudly.

"Everything alright?"

"No—I dropped my ring—it… was my mom's," I said in a panicky voice. "I mean—it's mine now. Since she, uh, died. Oh, God."

That certainly got his attention. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "Did you see where it went?"

"I think it fell under this shelf here."

I heard his solid footsteps approaching. My heart was absolutely slamming away behind my rib cage; I wasn't entirely sure he couldn't hear it.

He appeared behind a beam of light. As he stepped closer, I realized it was his cell phone producing it.

"Sorry. There's not a ton of light down here." He frowned at the shelf. "Let me grab a broom or something—maybe we can sweep it out from underneath."

"No!" I shouted. Jamie looked startled. "No, I mean—the gemstone on it is coming loose. What if it fell out? I don't want to lose it. I'm sorry, it's just—this thing is so important to me—"

"I understand, Max. I just don't think I can move it without taking all the stock off. I can be gentle with the broom."

"No," I said again, a bit softer this time. "I'm, um, stronger than I look. I can help you move it."

Jamie gave me a skeptical look, as if to say, _Look at you._

"I'm serious."

He shrugged. "Okay."

I stood at one side of the shelf. Jamie found the other. Just by looking at it, I knew it'd be a piece of cake to move, but I couldn't give myself away.

"Okay. On the count of three, we'll—"

" _Three_ ," I said, and I pushed the shelving unit toward him.

Jamie made a small startled noise. "Oh. We're really going for it then," he mumbled.

A couple more heave-hos and the shitty wall was revealed. Before he could find his way back around, I knocked the paneling above the baseboard with the gap in it.

And _guess what,_ folks—it was _hollow._

Jamie made his way over to me, a sheen of sweat covering his face. He looked alarmed at the ease with which I'd moved the furniture and how little I'd exerted myself.

"I went to college on a full ride for track," I said. "Decathlon."

I dropped to my hands and knees and peered eagerly through dust bunnies and around cobwebs. After about five minutes of this charade, I leaned back on my heels and faked a shaky sigh.

"Oh, no," I muttered. "Jamie, it's not here…"

"Don't panic, Max. You're sure you dropped it here?"

"Yes, just now. I heard it fall."

He shrugged. "Let's keep looking."

I shook my head and tried to look immensely distressed. "I have work tomorrow. I have to get home. Oh, God, what if we never find it?"

He considered this. "Well, we know it's here _somewhere._ I can keep an eye out for it. It'll be an excuse for you to come visit me. Maybe for me to get your phone number," he said, waggling his eyebrows.

 _Phone number,_ I thought. _Sure._

"I'd like that," I said with a smile.

We replaced the shelf and found our way back up the steps. When we made it to the top, Jamie re-hooked the keys and smiled at me.

"Let me just make sure the kitchen looks okay and I can lock up the front. I can show you around back there, if you'd like."

My eyes found the keys. How could I possibly get them without him seeing?

"Actually, I…" I scanned the bar. My half-finished rum and Coke was still in front of where I'd been sitting. "I'd actually like to finish my drink, if you don't mind," I said.

"Please do." He took another key—this one on its own ring—off another hook behind the bar. "Give me a minute. I'll walk you to your car. Or—sorry, the train."

Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen.

It was now or never. Before I could think too much about it, I jumped over the bar, grabbed the key ring as quietly as possible, and crammed it into my windbreaker pocket.

My heart was positively racing. They were heavy in my hand and made a jingling noise; I crushed them in my palm and begged them to not make too much noise.

I'd just made it back over the bar and funneled the rest of my drink when he walked back into the dining room. I made a strangled choking sound as the rum burned my esophagus. Jamie coughed out a laugh.

"Man, you _really_ don't like liquor, do you? You kind of struck me as a margarita, Twisted Tea kind of gal. But after the way you handled that shelf down there… I bet you've done a few keg stands in your day."

I didn't know what a keg stand was, but I could make an educated guess. "A couple."

Blessedly, he didn't go back behind the bar. I did my best to focus him on the front door and nothing else. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of turning off televisions and powering down computer workstations, Jamie led us back outside into the winter.

"We could probably hop the Red Line out of Downtown Crossing," Jamie said thoughtfully. "A little bit of a walk, but it's not too bad out."

Oh, God, he was still going for it. I'd played up this flirty schoolteacher thing for a purpose. Now that I'd fulfilled this purpose, I needed some clever way out that didn't involve violence.

You know, life is kind of funny in that sometimes, it gives you exactly what you need. Maybe not in the way you'd like it, but, hey, beggars can't be choosers.

I say this because as we stepped into the night, a figure emerged from the darkness. The alcohol chose that moment to slam me all at once, so I had to squint at the silhouette that I would've otherwise been able to identify immediately.

"Hi, _Max_ ," Iggy said in his deepest, angriest, I'm-going-to-kill-you voice.

His face was splitting in two and swimming before me. His cloudy eyes were narrowed into slits, and his face was bright red. He was furious—this was obvious even in my inebriated state.

Normal Max would've been absolutely mortified at the scene he was probably seeing. Me, drunk, stumbling out of a bar with some no-name twenty-something year old at one in the morning. And not just _any_ bar—no, the bar that happened to be in the location of an evil genius who wanted to kill us all.

Somehow, this thought was hilarious to me.

"Heeeey," I managed around a stifled laugh. Luckily, this word was almost impossible to slur, so I sounded better than I could've.

Iggy still didn't look convinced _or_ entertained. "You were supposed to be home _hours ago_ ," he said through gritted teeth. "I was starting to get _worried_."

"How'd y'find me?" I managed. I wondered if he knew I was drunk.

"You're _very_ predictable," he seethed.

"Hey," Jamie said, clearly misreading the situation. He puffed out his chest and stepped toward Iggy threateningly. Overall, a bad idea. "What're you, her keeper?"

Iggy gritted his teeth. "It's starting to _really_ seem like that, lately."

"Hey, hey, _hey_." I swayed dangerously. Jamie's arms shot out to catch me; I jerked out of the way and braced myself against the wall. "Everything's _fine_ —"

"Wait," Iggy thundered with wide eyes. " _Are you DRUNK_?"

Well, there it was.

"I can't _believe_ you!"Iggy threw his hands in the air and turned a painful shade of cerise. "Jesus, Max, are you fucking _kidding_ me?"

"Cool it, beanstalk," said Jamie.

Iggy ignored him and roared at me, "What the hell were you _thinking_?"

"Hey!" Jamie said, edging toward me. "I said _cool it_!"

"How about _you_ cool it, fuckface?"

"Watch your fuckin' mouth around me!"

" _STAY OUT OF THIS_!"

"Whoa, whoa!" I put myself in between the two of them. "Boys!"

" _Boys?_ " Iggy was completely enraged. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him this way. " _BOYS?_ Have you finally totally and completely _LOST IT?_ "

Without thinking, I put my hands on Iggy's chest and shoved him.

Because Iggy's _Iggy_ , he shoved me back. In my altered state, this sent me rocketing to the ground on my ass.

"Asshole," I muttered. The world spun around me, and I started to feel sick.

It may surprise you all, but six-foot-four Iggy shoving helpless, little old me (at least as far as this stranger was concerned) to the ground didn't go over quite well in public.

Jamie immediately stepped by me and started to advance on Iggy.

"You'd better get the fuck outta here if you know what's good for you."

Iggy snorted. "Yeah. Alright, buddy. Max, get off your—"

"You shittin' me? She's not goin' with you!"

I pushed myself to my feet and dusted myself off with a giant sigh. "No, no—he's right. I goofed."

" _What?_ "

I shook my head. "Gotta go. Lots of responsibilities."

" _Responsibilities?_ What kind of responsibilities warrant running off with this abusive asshole?"

" _Abusive—_?"

I met Jamie's angry eyes and waved an arm vaguely. "Leading a group of ragtag mutants. World saving. Dying. Tons of stuff on the to-do list. You wouldn't understand."

" _What?_ "

"Ooookay, that's enough," Iggy said. He yanked me closer to him by the arm with that terrifying aim of his. Then he took a deep sniff and made a sound of disgust. "Jesus, you _reek_. F—Nick is going to _murder_ you. I can't _fucking_ believe this."

"Who the hell is Nick?" Jamie said. "Listen, I'm gonna call the cops."

"No!" Iggy and I said at the same time.

Jamie whipped out a cellphone and starting punching numbers into the screen. Iggy reached out and slapped the phone to the ground and kicked it out of the way.

"Hey!"

I stepped in between the two of them again and caught Jamie's eyes. "Wait—listen—"

"You can't let him treat you like this!"

"He's my brother," I blurted.

Jamie stared from me to Iggy and then back to me again. I sighed.

" _Adopted_ brother. And he's right. I gotta go. But it was nice t'meet you."

"You can _not_ be serious," Jamie said.

"She is," Iggy said, grabbing me by the arm again. "And we're leaving."

With that, he dragged me into the night. Just before we turned the corner onto the main street, I heard Jamie yell, "Wait—I never got your number!"

Iggy let loose an infuriated laugh. "I can't believe you."

"Yes, you've made that quite clear," I shot back sloppily. "Listen, if you lemme explain—"

"Not right now. We're getting out of here."

Together, he and I hustled a few blocks, which was really more of Iggy hauling me through the streets of Boston. land then tugged me into a back alley before punching me in the shoulder.

" _Ow_ ," I snapped. "Jesus, Ig—"

He punched me again.

" _Ow!_ "

He raised his hand to do it again, but I backed out of the way.

His face was still crimson. "What the fuck were you _thinking,_ Max?! Wandering off like that? _Going to the Applebee's_? Getting _drunk_?"

"I'm sorry," I said. I didn't really mean it.

"Do you realize all the things that could've happened to you? Are you _insane_?"

"We need answers," I mumbled.

"Not in exchange for your life!"

"I'm going to die anyway!"

See, the funny thing about alcohol is that it makes you feel everything _all at once._ So in one second, I totally didn't mean these things. And then, all of a sudden, I really, really did.

"I'm sorry," I said again, only this time it was around the thickness of a sob. "Oh, God, what was I thinking—Jesus, I'm so stupid—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Yeah, you'd fucking better be!"

My breathing started coming quickly—too quickly. The walls of the buildings around us started to collapse in on me. Iggy grabbed my hand and dragged me further away.

"We need to go."

"Ig, I don't—" Horrifyingly, I hiccuped. "—I don't think—"

"Too bad! We're sitting ducks. Figure it out. _Let's go._ "

Then the most horrifying thing possible happened: I slumped against the brick wall behind me and dissolved into a fit of drunken, hysterical, inconsolable tears.

"Oh, my God," I blubbered around gasping breaths. "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry—I'm going to _die—_ Iggy, what am I going to _do_? And Angel—" Oh, God—this wasn't good. " _Angel_! Iggy, everything is such a _mess_ , I can't do this—"

In front of me, Iggy went rigid. Then he was pulling me into his chest and gently patting my back.

"Hey," he said into my hair. One of his hands found the spot in between my wings. "Max. This is the alcohol talking. You're fine. You can handle it."

"I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't." I shook my head vigorously and continued to cry.

"Everything's going to be fine. We'll… we'll figure it out."

" _How_?"

He had no answer for that. Instead, he roped a long arm around my back and hauled me away from the alley toward the ocean.

I cried the whole way to the marina. Iggy either couldn't get a word in edgewise or didn't know what to say. By the time we made it there, I had no fight left in me whatsoever. I was exhausted from the booze, still dizzy and sick-feeling, and had totally given up all hope on my life. My eyes were nearly swollen shut and my chest was heavy with dread.

I took a deep breath and shook out my feathers, trying to clear my head enough to fly.

By this point, Iggy had picked up on the fact that I was beyond tired, totally upset, and ready to throw in the towel—historically, when this has happened in the past, it was _no bueno_ , so he knew he needed to tread wisely.

"We have to go," he said. His voice was still harsh but far less venomous than it had been before.

I sighed and shoved my hands in my windbreaker pockets, trying to shake out the fog that had taken over my head.

It was only then that my drunken brain realized it had forgotten something very important: that I'd pilfered the keys.

"Wait!" I dangled the key ring in front of Iggy. I tried my best to smirk but I don't think it worked very well. "Look!"

With his new senses, Iggy somehow knew I was holding something in front of him. "What the hell is that?"

"Keys."

"Keys?"

"To the basement."

Iggy paused. "To the basement."

"Of Applebee's."

His eyes widened. Then they widened even more. Then he half-smiled and tried to cover it up.

"I got the bartender to talk. Apparently a few years back they came under new management from a random guy who just happened to buy the restaurant. Nobody's ever seen him. He ordered for some major renovation for a water leak, but it took way longer than it should've."

Iggy was watching me intently. "There's more," he guessed.

"There's a secret door down there. One of the baseboards has a gap, and it's totally hollow behind the paneling. I can feel it, Ig. That has to be it."

He narrowed his eyes at me. I could practically hear his mind working this over.

"We can talk about this when we get back," he said. "I want to check Fang's wound. And have a front row seat to him reaming you out."

Amidst all the chaos, I'd totally forgotten that Iggy has left the flock unprotected.

"Wait—you left them alone? Asleep?"

Iggy snorted. "Jesus, Max, I may not be a scholar, but I have _brain cells._ Trust me, Nudge woke _everybody_ up with her crying. They're on red alert until we come back. Or until _I_ come back, since we all assumed I'd either be empty-handed or dragging your dead body."

My stomach dropped.

Iggy answered the question I didn't need to ask. "Yes, Max. Even Fang."

"What? He needs to rest, you idiot!"

"Maybe you should've thought of that before taking off like that!" Iggy bellowed.

"I _got the key_ s—"

Iggy ignored me. "Of _course_ he's going to worry about you! He was ready to come get you himself, shredded leg be damned!"

"Oh, God," I moaned, feeling sick again.

"Understatement," Iggy mumbled. As if I didn't already know.

"Okay," I said, more to steady myself than anything else. "Okay. We're just not going to tell him—"

"What?" barked Iggy incredulously. "That you got wasted and waggled your eyebrows at Fabio over there?"

"I did not _waggle_ anything!"

Iggy unfurled his own wings and raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Whatever, Max. My lips are sealed."

"I _did not waggle anything_!" I hissed. "I needed to get these stupid keys so we have a way in. Jesus, Iggy, do you _really think_ —"

" _Whatever_ , Max. And you know what, I wasn't kidding before—"

"Yeah, I get it," I grumbled. My vision seemed a bit less blurry—the adrenaline pumping through my system at the thought of facing my flock, at the discovery of Vector's probable location, at nabbing the keys, was enough to sober me up for the flight. "You hate me. Nudge hates me. Fang hates me. Everyone hates me."

Iggy sighed and put a hand on my shoulder. I owed him an apology that I couldn't bring myself to verbalize. I hoped he could feel it rolling off of me in waves.

"We don't hate you, Max. We could never hate you. We hate _this,_ just like you do. All of this. This entire situation." He rubbed my shoulder, a rare display of affection from him, before pulling his hand back just as quickly as he'd placed it there.

"Let's go," I said miserably.

Iggy made me take off first, probably because he didn't trust me not to turn around and run on him. Together, we flew the short trip to Thompson Island at top speed. We didn't speak once, because for the first time in a long time, it felt like there was nothing to say.

I was slated to die. Fang was hurt. Angel was gone. And we had our ticket to get into Vector.

The question was whether or not it was one-way.

* * *

A/N: I came home from a long day at work and made it a priority to finish this for you guys. As a result, it's pretty sloppy, and I'm sorry.

Love you all. xo


	21. TWENTY-ONE

_A/N: The nice thing about flopping back to nights is that I get some downtime usually to work on this! Sorry it was so long, but I promise you, as always, that this story will not be abandoned._

 _Didn't proofread this one (as seems to be my new norm). Happy July, everyone!_

* * *

TWENTY-ONE

The flight back to the island sobered me up pretty drastically. By the time we landed, I was left with only exhaustion and a throbbing headache that I knew would only get worse as the hours went by. Crying certainly hadn't helped—my very first drinking experience would no doubt be followed by my very first hangover when the morning hours rolled around. We didn't have nearly enough bottled water to waste on my self-inflicted dehydration, so I'd have to tough it out.

Iggy didn't speak to me once while we trekked back to camp. Because I knew him so well, I was well aware of the restraint it must've taken him to keep his mouth shut. Every so often, I could hear him hold his breath before turning his face toward me, as if he were assessing my demeanor. The crying had stopped, but he knew too well—as did the rest of his flock—that when it came to me during times like this, it didn't take much for me to descend into total madness.

Sure enough, once we rounded the corner to our campsite, it only took one look at Fang to bring tears back to my eyes. His normally olive complexion was still tinged with grey from blood loss, his eyes were set in even darker, deep circles, and though his look of concern had been washed away by one of indignation once he realized I was in one piece, I could still see the exhaustion that sat heavily on every pore as he positively grilled me.

He'd come very close to bleeding out just hours ago, and what had I done? What I always did: went flying off the handle. This time I took it so far as to impulsively run straight into harm's way—and get _drunk_ in the process. While I flirted with a total stranger.

What kind of leader— _person_ —was I?

After my embarrassing sobfest with Iggy, I was determined not to dissolve into hysterics. Not in front of the flock.

Not in front of Fang.

Before I could do anything, say anything, think anything, a human being was in my arms. Nudge.

"Max!" she wailed, wrapping her arms around me and crushing me to her. "Oh, Max, you're okay! Where _were_ you?!"

I expected Iggy's predictable rage; something snappy and condescending along the lines of, _"Found her at the bottom of a bottle getting ready to go home with some dude_."

To my immense surprise, he said vaguely, "Found her in one piece." His voice was quiet, controlled. Very much un-Iggy-like.

I peeked over Nudge's shoulder at Fang, whose expression had changed from one of great distress to irritation and now to curiosity at the tone of Iggy's voice. He was suspicious. Which meant that, come hell or high water, he would get to the bottom of this.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. _I will not cry._

"I'm so sorry!" Nudge continued just as Gazzy slammed into us, joining the hug. "I didn't mean to be such a bitch, I was just—I didn't know what to—and I was so upset—"

"Hey," I said raggedly. "It's okay." I patted her back and shushed her. "I'm sorry for taking off," I started, but my voice cracked and wobbled, and I couldn't bring myself to talk any more.

 _I will not cry._

"It's okay, Max," Gazzy said delicately. His big, blue eyes, so much like his sister's, sliced right through me.

Let me remind you that the Gasman is ten years old. _Ten._ And here he was, telling me, the leader, that things were okay. I forced a deep breath in. Then out.

 _I will not cry._

Nudge leaned back and turned her head to one side like a confused puppy. "What's that smell?"

I couldn't even pretend to play dumb. I just stood there and looked at her, willing myself to disappear, willing this all to be a nightmare.

When I didn't answer, Fang's voice, deep, mean, and accusatory, cut through the silence.

"It's alcohol."

The way he said it was matter-of-fact. Quiet, but brutally accusatory. This was when Fang was most dangerous: when he knew I wouldn't fight back, because we both knew he was right, and I was wrong.

"Isn't it, Max?"

I recognized the fire behind his eyes. It was the dreaded smolder that said, _I'm disappointed in you. I trusted you. What the fuck were you thinking?_

Among other, more violent things.

Nudge stared at me. Gazzy's eyebrows hit his hairline as he glanced incredulously from me to Fang to Iggy.

I could practically taste Iggy's unease radiating from behind me. Despite all the smack he'd talked about ratting me out to Fang, he seemed edgy. I wondered if it was because he had seen firsthand how fragile a state I was in and wasn't sure he was prepared for whatever next stage of total emotional decompensation came after _existential-crisis-nervous-breakdown._

And just like that, it crashed back down on me like a ton of freaking bricks. Iggy was worried about me having a psychotic break. Fang was ashamed of me. For a few hours, Gazzy and Nudge had feared I was dead.

And Angel was still gone.

"Yeah," I said. My voice cracked pitifully, and I bit my lip to keep from crying. "Yeah. It is." And then I dropped my chin to my chest and tried to stop myself from totally losing it. I could still feel Fang's eyes on me. He was absolutely furious.

 _Oh, God, what have I done?_

"Max managed to find a hidden door in the basement of the restaurant," I heard Iggy say from behind me.

My head shot up in surprise. I turned to look at him. His expression didn't change.

"We're pretty sure, at least. And when the bartender wasn't looking, she swiped these."

He stepped forward and dipped his hand into my jacket pocket, producing the key ring.

Fang said nothing. Gazzy said, "What are those?"

"Keys to Narnia."

Gazzy's eyes widened. "Wait. _Really?_ "

"No, you _imbecile_ ," snapped Iggy. "They're the keys to the fucking secret door."

Iggy looked at me expectantly as if to say, _Go ahead, take credit._ When I didn't open my mouth, he seemed to understand that I had no words.

"She tricked the bartender."

"Tricked?" Fang said. His tone was mild, but the edges were sharp.

"Yes, Fang, _tricked_ ," Iggy said back. "She had to get creative, earn his trust. And it worked."

"…For the most part," I added in a scratchy voice. "We kind of had to take off at the end."

"Eh, formalities," Iggy said, waving his hand.

Fang glowered at me over the fire. I again noticed how ghostly pale he was, how tired he looked. That walls-are-closing-in feeling started to sweep over me—but there wasn't a wall to speak of nearby.

Iggy dropped a hand on my shoulder and rubbed it comfortingly as he passed by to kneel by his backpack. "You never told us what happened at Goodchurch's condo," Iggy said.

I'd completely forgotten. Fang, with what appeared to be some difficulty, tore his bloodthirsty gaze from me to look at Iggy.

"Not much to tell."

Iggy paused while rifling through the first aid supplies and rolled his eyes. "Humor me."

"There were a bunch of Erasers and guys like the one from the alley in there. They were combing the place for information and planning what to do next. One of them could smell me. Made a dive for the laptop but couldn't keep up the invisibility. I made a jump for the sliding door, but an Eraser got a good swipe at me before I could get out."

"Scythe wasn't in there?" I blurted.

Fang looked back at me sharply with a face that said, _Did I say he was?_

The flock glanced between the two of us apprehensively, waiting for one of us to say something. When Fang didn't look away, and I looked at my shoes, Iggy broke the silence with, "We should get some rest."

Nudge and the Gasman offered me one more tight hug and then settled into their spots around the camp. Fang's eyes never left me once.

Iggy settled in to check Fang's wound, so I trekked a bit deeper into the forest in an attempt to get some air into me. Iggy called out a warning that if I took off again, he'd skin me, but when I sighed tiredly and told him I wasn't going anywhere, my dejected voice seemed to convince him that I wasn't lying.

I found a tall tree and leaned heavily against it, letting the smell of the pine needles and ocean air fill my lungs, searching for a split second of peace in my positively upside-down world.

I had about five minutes of silence before I became acutely aware of Fang and Iggy's rapidly raising voices.

"…really think you should back off," Iggy was saying.

Fang said nothing.

"I'm not _kidding_ , you moron."

"Don't remember asking your opinion."

"Fang."

"Drop it, Iggy."

"No," Iggy hissed. "She gets that she fucked up. You're going to push her over the edge."

Fang snorted.

Iggy made a little sound of frustration and sighed in resignation. "Dude, just back off. I already laid into her."

"I'll say what I want when I want to. She can handle it. And none of it has anything to do with you."

There was a long pause filled only with the sound of Iggy shoving the first aid supplies back into his backpack before he said, "Listen, Fang. Is she stupid for putting herself in danger? Of course. But everything she does, she does for this flock. She got those keys for us, not herself. She isn't even sure she'll be around to see this thing through."

"She really thinks she's going to die. She's doing things with total disregard for her own life."

The bag zippered up with finality. I heard Iggy sling it over his shoulder. "Do you really think that makes any of it any less scary for her? Maybe you should consider that next time you think she's doing this because she thinks it's fun."

Then came the sound of his footsteps retreating further into the campsite.

Fang was mad. Okay, I could deal with that. Fang was disappointed—a little tougher. Fang was…

Well, what _was_ he? Something more than disappointed. It felt almost like he'd lost respect for me. This was an absolutely horrific thing to realize, and before I knew it, I was trying to slow my breathing before I blacked out.

I don't know how long I sat there like that before I heard the rustling in the trees behind me. I didn't even have to look to know it was Fang—his staggered, one-legged gait and his comforting scent were dead giveaways.

I furiously wiped at the tears in my eyes and forced myself to pull it the hell together as Fang came to a stop and lowered himself to the ground next to me with some difficulty.

Neither of us said anything for a while. I couldn't bring myself to look at Fang, but I knew his eyes were locked on me.

"Iggy said you were pretty drunk when he showed up." He said it mildly but the anger behind the words was potent, so the words stung nonetheless.

I did nothing to indicate that I'd even heard him. There was a hot pinch in my eyes as tears filled them again.

"I cannot _fucking_ believe you."

There it was.

I looked up at the stars, willing my eyes to absorb the tears back. I cursed under my breath when they rolled down my cheeks anyway. Out of the corner of my eye, Fang's face hadn't harshened any less.

"You have nothing to say?"

Another silence.

"Seriously?"

"What do you want me to say, Fang?" I snapped. "I get it, alright? I'm a fuck up. Everything is fucked up. Angel is gone. Nudge hates me. _You_ hate me. I can't keep it together. Every single day is a new disaster. I showed up to the bar, found a lead, and did what I had to do to make it worthwhile. If you're going to punish me for that, then go ahead. I've already screwed everything else up, so I might as well go big or go home."

Somehow, Fang looked a bit taken aback. "You could've been killed."

I snorted. "Sure. By that fucking string bean making the drinks? I don't think so."

"You have no idea who else could've been there. If that really _is_ their headquarters, there could've been Erasers—or worse, like that guy from the alleyway—"

My stomach churned at that. "Yeah, well, there weren't."

"You can't keep doing this. Running off putting yourself in danger—"

"Uh, _hello_? _You're_ the one who ran full-stop into a sliding glass door!"

"That was different."

"Oh, was it?" I barked. "Please, _enlighten_ me!"

"I didn't have a ton of other options! And that was a mission. There was valuable information that we needed, and you were there in case things went south—"

"Yeah, Fang, and they _did_ go south! And me being there still almost wasn't enough!"

"You ran off to an unknown location _completely_ alone, in the middle of the winter, _straight_ into the most dangerous place on earth for us right now!" Fang's voice had reached a volume I hadn't heard in years. His face was red and his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles shone in the moonlight. "And then you got shitfaced! Do you know how _stupid_ that was? Do you have any idea how worried the kids and Iggy were? How worried _I_ was?"

I was shocked into silence. I struggled to put a sentence together, but Fang started up again before I could.

He pointed back to where the flock was. "They are _all_ that matters," he whispered harshly. "How do you keep forgetting that?"

I shook my head and swallowed thickly.

 _I'm not forgetting that,_ I wanted to shriek. _How could I ever possibly forget that?_

When I opened my mouth, nothing came out. Tears dripped from my cheeks to the cold ground beneath us. He was right.

"I don't know," I whispered.

He reached a long finger at me and poked me in the center of the chest, right where my scar peeked over my long sleeve. " _You_ are all that matters."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he stopped there. My heart was pounding. His finger still rested on my chest.

I was a total fucking moron. He was right. Of course he was right. He was always right, I was always wrong. It was hard to understand why I was even in charge.

Fang moved his hand from my sternum to my shoulder. His grip was tight, almost like he thought that by holding me, he'd never lose me.

"You're running around like you have a death wish," he said.

There was no chance in hell I'd stop crying now, so I stopped fighting it and let the quiet sobs come. God, I was a disaster.

"I don't _want_ to die, Fang," I managed between gasps. "I'm just _going_ to."

Fang's eyes, usually so stoic and guarded, flashed with pain. He squeezed my shoulder and then slid his hand up to cup my cheek. I closed my eyes and leaned into his warmth, cherishing it, knowing my days at his side were numbered.

In that moment, I was more vulnerable than I could ever remember being. At least not for a long, long time. There was nothing either of us could say that would fix anything. We'd always known we were built for a purpose, for a job, and aside from that we were completely disposable science experiments that happened to turn out alright, trying to find a way to survive while living on borrowed time.

"Fang," I breathed, just a whisper, into the broken night. My voice was smaller than it had been in years. "I'm scared."

A beat of silence followed before the pad of Fang's calloused thumb smoothed over my lips. I couldn't bring myself to open my eyes.

"I know," he said finally.

Then, in an even smaller voice, I said, "I'm _terrified_."

Another longer silence blanketed over us. The wind roared once, the waves slammed against the rocky shore about a half mile away from us. Fang leaned in close enough that I could smell our cheapo-brand cinnamon toothpaste on his breath.

When he spoke, his voice was so close that it startled me. "I know," he repeated softly. For the life of him, it looked like he wanted to add, _Me too._

Fang took his other hand and placed it on my other cheek. My brain ceased all function. All I could do was stare at him; his calamine lips, his interstellar eyes, the rosiness of his cheeks from the cold on his face, already pallid from blood loss.

He was perfect, I knew. He was _made for me_ , I knew. The male counterpart to The Angel Experiment. Max and Fang.

He leaned in closer, eyes never leaving mine, and spoke almost inaudibly. "I'm not ready to let you go. And I'm not planning to."

"I'm sorry," I whispered brokenly. "About earlier. I didn't do it to be reckless, or to scare anyone, or—"

"Max. I know. You wouldn't be you if you weren't impulsively running off to do something for the greater good."

He was only inches away from me now. He pulled one of his hands from my cheek and brushed my hair behind my ear with it. I let my eyes flutter shut again and took a deep breath in.

"You're not going anywhere," he said with finality. "There's way too much we haven't done."

 _We_ haven't done, he'd said. _We._

That was all it took for me to slam my lips against his.

Fang's half-second of surprise passed quickly. His hand found the back of my head and pulled me closer. His tongue prodded my lips until they were open, and a whole new feeling of warmth and excitement spread through me like poison.

Fang leaned back into me, pushing ever so gently until I was on my back on the cool ground. He braced himself with his hands and bent forward to kiss me again, this time less hungrily. My body moved against him without permission. The temperature must've jumped ten degrees.

My brain had quickly taken up the age-old philosophy of _don't think, just do_. I leaned up to kiss him again and groaned when he ducked back into me. One of my knees shifted and caught the inside of his thigh—he sucked in a deep breath between his teeth and stopped moving.

I froze. "Sorry—shit—your leg—"

He exhaled shakily and shook his head, letting his overlong hair drape in my face, but not before I caught a glimpse of the redness of his cheeks. "Not that."

I opened my mouth to ask, _Then_ what _?_ but when he lowered himself back down nearly on top of me it became abundantly clear _what_. We were pressed together from our chests to our knees, so this didn't leave much up to the imagination. When I met his eyes, I saw nothing but pure vulnerability in them.

He said my name. Just one syllable, like an invocation, like a vow, like if it were the last thing on earth he got to say, he'd be okay with it.

In that moment, something monumental changed. I felt all the fear and excitement and confusion melt away, leaving me with just an all-encompassing, aching feeling of hollowness and colossal sadness.\

Fang noticed the change in my demeanor immediately. He braced himself on his elbows, taking some of his body weight off of me, and brushed a hand over my cheek. His brows knit in the middle when he saw the tears in my eyes.

He didn't need to speak; I could read the question that sat behind his lips. _Why?_ One word, fully loaded—why was I crying? Why this moment? Why was any of this happening?

I forced the words out as stiffly as I could; they sounded tired and broken-in, mostly because I'd been thinking them for every second of every day since the expiration date showed up on my neck.

"We didn't get enough time."

Fang's face softened and then took on a look of pain. One of his thumbs reached up to brush the tears off my cheeks. He sat back on his heels and pulled me up from the ground and into him, hugging me as tightly to him as physics would allow.

"Not yet," he said quietly. "But we will. You'll see."

 _Yeah_ , I thought. _I guess we will._


	22. TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-TWO

Iggy and Nudge split the night's watch. The adrenaline rush I'd been blessed with wore off into a state of pure exhaustion, and Fang was obviously too tired to do much of anything. He didn't even argue.

Only two nights had passed since I'd found out I was going to die in a week, which meant I had five days left to tie up these loose ends. About once an hour, Fang or Nudge would discretely brush my hair off my neck in hopes that the number had magically disappeared.

It had not.

There was no telling if there was a way to somehow stop it from happening—we'd picked up a lot of weird, science-y information during our time at the school, but unfortunately, we didn't know much about the logistics around unraveling genes—but I was prepared to try my damnedest.

This meant the challenge for the new day ahead of us (aside from the crushing headache I'd developed) was to decide whether or not to storm Scythe's headquarters. The flock, unsurprisingly, was split on this decision.

"I'm strong enough to go," Fang said immediately. To his credit, his face had returned to its normal tanned shade, although the bags under his eyes remained. "This needs to be over." There was a spark in his eyes that indicated he hadn't forgotten our conversation from the night before. "We _deserve_ for this to be over."

"They have my sister," the Gasman said darkly. "They've had her for too long, Max, who knows what they're doing to her—"

"Gazzy, wait," said Nudge before my mind could spiral down into that dark, twisted place. "We need to be smart about this. How many opportunities have we had like this?"

"Like _what_?"

"To totally blow the roof off this thing and finish it off. To head right into the thick of it, you know?"

Gazzy furrowed his eyebrows. "None?"

" _That's_ why we need to be smart," she said. Then, as if she needed confirmation that she was right, she looked to me. "Right?"

Instead of answering, I turned to Iggy, who'd said nothing to me since the night before. "What say you?"

Iggy looked up from where he was warming up a can of beans over the fire.

"Dunno," he said with a shrug. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Don't think we should go back so soon, though—that bartender might be waiting for us to come back. Especially if he notices that that key is gone."

I considered this. Fang didn't seem pleased, but he settled gingerly at the edge of the fire, doing his best to hide the grimace that was threatening to pull at his lips.

"Realistically, though," continued Iggy, "he's just a regular human guy. No way he's even taller than six feet, probably weighs one seventy-five on a good day. We could break him in half."

I saw the corner of Fang's mouth twitch almost imperceptibly.

"He could be an Eraser," I offered despite already knowing the counter argument.

Iggy scoffed. "When's the last time we met one of the School's freaky mutants that started out as scrawny as that guy? Plus, the thing is," Iggy added quietly, breaking eye contact, "we're kind of racing against the clock, here."

I gritted my teeth. Gazzy was still totally in the dark about my expiration date; Iggy's blatant disregard for my desire to keep that secret was the elephant in the room (on the island?) between he, Nudge, Fang and I.

Luckily, the Gasman was none the wiser—he continued to glare at me, as if daring me to suggest we _not_ leave immediately. Because he knew the decision fell on my shoulders.

I was the leader, after all. Somehow, still to this day, they let me lead them. After millions of mistakes, wrong turns, and poor, impulsive decisions, I still got to call the shots. At least—mostly. But there hadn't been a flock mutiny for a long time, and in times as delicate as these, they tended to refer back to me anyway.

I weighed my options. Every single part of me was itching to pull a Classic Max Move, like leap into the air and, with a few powerful flaps of my wings, send myself soaring over the small stretch of Atlantic that separated us from Angel, my baby. But over recent months, a different part of me was starting to develop—a rational, think-first kind of Max. A kind of Max that realized how genuinely mortal she (and the rest of her flock) was, despite the Angel-sized hole in her heart.

I still wasn't sure how I felt about her, but today, she was the one who won.

"Not yet," I said firmly. The Gasman groaned angrily, Nudge let out a little sigh of relief, and Fang stared intensely at me. Iggy started portioning out the beans, face blank.

"But soon," I promised.

* * *

We spent the day, by and large, doing nothing. Iggy and Nudge left the island to pick up some more bottled water and other general supplies we were running low on. While I settled myself to take a look at Fang's leg, I assigned the Gasman the flock-favorite chore of laundry, which involved all of our grimy clothes, a handful of cheap shampoo, and our two last bottles of water (word to the wise: don't try washing denim in salt water).

Fang's wound was closing up faster than Iggy and I had anticipated, even considering our freakish healing patterns. What had once been a six-inch slice deep enough to reveal his muscle was now a four-inch gash that could've been caused by, you know, something _normal_. Fang's complexion, which had developed a disconcerting greyish undertone, had returned to its normal olive tone.

"What?"

Fang's voice jarred me from my thoughts. He was looking at me blankly, as per usual, but I could tell he was trying to figure out what I was thinking.

"Nothing," I said mildly. "Just—you look more like you again. Less corpsey."

Fang's eyebrows barely quirked.

"Gosh," he said. "Thanks."

I felt myself grin. One corner of Fang's mouth threatened to quirk into a smile. A familiar warm feeling gushed deep in my chest.

Nudge and Iggy came trudging through the underbrush, ruining our moment.

"Max, it's _cold,_ " Nudge said. She had her coat pulled tightly around her and two bags of supplies hanging from her elbow.

Iggy, tall and pale, appeared behind her, a giant case of bottled water propped on one shoulder. "Don't you think it's about time we relocate to the mainland? You know… inside a _building_?" He dropped the waters next to the fire. "For fuck's sake, Max, it's _December_."

I'd been avoiding _that_ conversation for days now. We had the card that Dr. Martinez had given us, but after a lifetime of being conditioned to save every single cent, it was hard to throw it away on something as trivial as shelter.

Yeah, I just referred to shelter as _trivial_. As far as I'm concerned, home is wherever you can lay your head and not die. Which means a tiny island off the coast of Massachusetts in December was a _perfectly_ good home.

Until, you know, it got cold enough that it was hard to _not_ die, I guess.

"Come closer to the fire," I muttered.

"Max," Iggy said. "Come on."

"We caught a glimpse of the news," said Nudge. "When we were in the store. It's supposed to snow tomorrow. Like, a lot."

" _Snow_?" That seemed unlikely. "What's it, fifty degrees today?"

"The weather patterns in the northeast are pretty unpredictable," Fang said. He'd stood up in front of me and was pulling his jeans back up over his freshly bandaged leg.

"Shut it."

He shrugged with an amused look in his eyes as he cinched his belt.

I sighed and brushed my hair out of my eyes. When I looked up, Nudge and Iggy were looking at me expectantly. Almost _incredulously_ , as if they couldn't believe I hadn't started packing the site up myself at this news of inclement weather.

"Suck it up," I suggested, but it was totally half-hearted. "I'm _always_ cold, and I'm doing okay." I didn't mention that it seemed to be pure adrenaline and fear that had adjusted internal thermostat.

"Maaaaaaax," whined Nudge.

" _Fine_."

"We're going?" Nudge squealed.

" _Really_?"

"I can't believe it was that easy!"

"I think she's finally going soft—"

"Enough, Iggy," I snapped. "Fine. Get the stuff together."

I stood up, brushed my hands off on my jeans, and began the short trek to the shore where the Gasman was doing the laundry.

As I stepped carefully around roots and rocks and underbrush, the thought occurred to me that if _now_ wasn't the time to go get Angel, then when _was_? Would there be a moment that it seemed right? That it seemed safe? Would we wake up one morning and say _now's the time to go_?

It seemed unlikely. It seemed, almost, that I was so afraid of screwing all of this up—of losing Angel, of my expiration date, of facing this massive fear head-on, of this new understanding of mortality—that I was losing the most authentic parts of me, the parts that acted on the courage that I was never fully confident I even had.

Was safe, think-ahead Max a good influence, or a bad one?

 _Tomorrow_ , I decided. We'd go find Angel, hell or high water.

Which meant we needed to get a plan together _today._

"Gazzy?" I called, pushing through the last of the deadened trees. "We're going to pack up, move to a hotel on the mainland. Tomorrow's the day… Gaz?"

The Gasman was unmoving. The clean laundry lay scattered on the ground next to him. Something was wrong.

"Gazzy?"

Still nothing.

" _Gazzy_ ," I said, a little more harshly this time. I could feel my Panic Feelers coming out. This was not like the Gasman. _Something was wrong._

I advanced on him in two giant strides, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him to face me. When I opened my mouth to ask him what the hell was going on, it became abundantly obvious what the problem was.

There in front of us, at the edge of the water, was a small basket. In the basket was a large clump of feathers. White feathers. White feathers far too large to belong to anything but a mutant birdkid.

They were Angel's feathers.

I grabbed the Gasman and shoved him behind me. The edges of my vision blurred. That familiar feeling of adrenaline, of panic, of _protectiveness_ shot through me as I scanned the water, the land, the sky.

"Where did this come from?" I demanded. When he didn't speak, I tried again. "Gazzy! _Where did this come from_?"

The Gasman was sheet white and unable to speak. His mouth opened and shut comically, like a fish gasping out of water.

" _Gazzy_!"

"I—I don't know," he spluttered. "I turned around and was folding the clothes for a little while, and then I went to pick them up and leave, and I turned around to make sure I hadn't missed anything and—and—" He was gasping for air. "And—and it was just here! I don't know, Max, I don't know—they must've floated it over or something—or—or somebody dropped it here, I don't know—I didn't hear anything, I swear—"

Dread filled every inch of me like ice water. We weren't safe. This was no accident or coincidence—this was a direct threat. A message. One that said, _We know where you are. We're waiting. We're watching._

One part of me said, _Think, Max. Think before you act. Be smart. Don't screw this up._ The other part said, _Act, Max. Don't think. Be brave. Fix this._

"Okay," I said, more to myself than anyone else. "Okay." I let a deep breath out, trying to clear my head. It wasn't working.

The Gasman was eyeing the basket. Even white-faced and panic-stricken, he had that look of determination I saw so often on him, usually before he did something very much against what I told him to.

"Gaz," I said in warning. "Come on, back to the site, we need to—"

"We need to _what_?" he snapped, eyebrows furrowing and cheeks flushing. "We need to _go_! Look what they're doing to her!"

His voice was loud and booming, undoubtedly carrying across the water. I'm sure the flock could hear.

"Yes, we do," I said levelly, trying to keep my shit together long enough to figure out what to do with this new information. "I know. But let's get our stuff together, put together a plan, and I promise we're going—tonight—"

"We're going _now._ "

"We can _not_ go now! We're not—"

"We're not _what,_ Max?"

"—we're not going to totally blow thischance!"

" _Chance?_ " The Gasman was in my face now, dangerously close to eye-level with me for a ten-year-old. He was growing like a weed and had potential to be the tallest of all of us someday. "Chance for _what?_ This is about _Angel!_ "

" _Of course it's about Angel_!"

There was a brief silence filled only by the sound of approaching footsteps in the underbrush that I knew belonged to the rest of the flock.

"Gazzy, listen. She's your sister. I know that. I would do _anything_ for Angel. But if we go in there and get ourselves killed, what good will it do?"

"If we _don't_ go, they'll kill her anyway!"

I felt what was left of my patience dissipate like a wisp of smoke. "I _know_ that! Jesus, Gazzy, give me a fucking second to _think_!"

"What's going on here?"

I jumped about half a foot and spun around and saw Fang, narrow-eyed and serious, standing a few paces in front of Iggy and Nudge, who were both slack-jawed and confused. My heart was racing and there were tears in my eyes, and the Gasman was nearly fuchsia with rage head to toe; there hadn't been an argument among us like this in a long time.

"They sent us a message."

I turned to gesture to the basket, but instead watched the Gasman fling himself into the air, sweep open his wings, and pump himself high into the sky.

"Gazzy!" I shouted in warning.

"Stay here if you want," he called down. "Plan, think, whatever— _I'm going to find my sister_!"

"Gazzy, _get back down here_!" I shrieked.

I could feel the fear starting to leak through the cracks of adrenaline. What had they done to Angel? If we showed up, would she even be alive? How had they found us? How long had they known we were here? What would they do to Gazzy if he showed up there?

I had no time to dwell on this, though; Gazzy was already growing smaller and smaller, turning into a dot against the stormy horizon.

"I'm following him," I announced snapping my own wings open and giving them a shake.

Nudge's eyes went wide. "But—"

"Pack up the stuff," I said to Fang. "Meet us at the park by the restaurant. Two miles south. We'll wait up for you."

"What if he won't?" Fang said, flicking his eyes toward the sky.

I gritted my teeth. "Then I'm going to make him."

Fang gave me a look like, _And how exactly are you going to do_ that _?_

"Seriously?" I growled. "Fifteen minutes. Be there."

I gave my wings another shake and took a deep breath, appreciating the moment—this was the calm before the storm. From here on out, it was go, go, _go_ ; danger and action and snap decisions. It didn't matter if we were ready. Not anymore.

"And get thinking," I added, looking over my shoulder. "Somebody had better come up with a good plan by then."

And then I was in the cold, December air, wings pumping, heart pounding, world spinning.

 _Angel, Scythe, Vector: we're coming._

* * *

 _A/N: I know, I know, I know…_

 _This is a VERY short update, but I wanted to prove to y'all that, as promised, I am going to finish this story. Honestly, this stretch of chapters was the hardest part, because the ending is essentially written, which I think we'll begin to delve into next chapter. We are ALMOST THERE._

 _I'm going through a point in my life where I have no confidence in anything that I'm doing and I'm feeling quite lost (thank you, quarter-life-crisis), and I also had a death in the family that I'm still working through, but distracting myself with this has been incredibly healthy._

 _Love to you all for sticking with me, especially **pancakes-for-you** , who harassed me the perfect amount to get this produced._


	23. TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-THREE

I'd gotten about forty feet into the air and was preparing to launch myself into hyper-speed when I heard Iggy call my name from behind me. I spun in a quick circle and opened my mouth to tell him to kindly _eff off back to the campsite_ , but he was already halfway to me and speaking.

"Doesn't take three people to throw a bunch of shit into bags, Max, you know that."

"Might take three people to _carry_ the bags," I shot back, but we both knew I was full of it. Realistically, we'd only be able to bring one pack with us, full of absolute essentials (our first aid kit, Fang's fancy pocketknife, something explosive of Gazzy's, etc); it wouldn't take Fang, Nudge, _and_ Iggy to split up our stuff.

"Nice try. Not sure why you _still_ feel like you have to do stuff all alone."

 _Because I can't lose any of you. Because I'll lay my life on the line before they lay a hand on any single one of you._

 _Because I'll be dead in days anyway._

Since now was not the time to unpack that, I decided on, "Habit."

Iggy nodded and sighed in sad agreement. "Yeah." Then he grabbed my ankle with both hands, flapping his wings in our equivalent of treading water. "Ready for takeoff?"

You'd think that my combined abilities of flying over two hundred miles per hour and being able to smell the flock from impossibly far distances would've made tracking the Gasman down a cinch. Unfortunately, when you're trying to cover an area as large as, you know, the _wide open sky_ , moving that quickly makes it hard to fully sweep your surroundings. As for smelling things, forget it—with air rushing by at that speed, nothing smells like anything anymore. And Even though Iggy was essentially a superhero at this point, he, too was rendered useless by our speed.

I decided to head straight to the park across from the restaurant, because I knew the Gasman would have to pass by there in order to get in. He'd no doubt be sweeping the perimeter and using that mischievous little brain of his to hatch some sort of mildly sensible plan.

When Iggy and I got there, we hunkered down next to a cluster of shrubs and did our best to look like just a couple'a crazy kids on some sort of hip, retro date in the park.

It couldn't have even been six o'clock yet, but winter on the coast this far east meant the sun had long since set, to our benefit. The downfall was that Vector had baited us here and absolutely knew we were coming, meaning we were walking directly into an ambush (à la my _worst freaking nightmare_ ).

The other downfall was that it was freaking _freezing_. The flock had been right—we should've moved indoors days, maybe _weeks_ ago, but at this point we'd be losing fingers and toes if we continued to camp outside.

Luckily, we'd either be completely free or _super_ dead after this.

We weren't there for two full minutes before a white-blond familiar-shaped figure came bustling down the street, clad in consignment shop cargo pants. It took me about five seconds to realize that Gazzy _wasn't stopping_ —he was going to walk directly into the restaurant without any sort of recon whatsoever.

Frame by frame, the world slowed down. I shoved myself to my feet and started walking, trying to make sense of what was about to happen.

As I started crossing the park, the Gasman turned, made unmistakable eye contact with me, and then, with a look of indignation on his face, threw open the door to the restaurant as I watched with utter helplessness.

A slew of curse words fell from my mouth. Behind me, Iggy was asking what was going on, but I couldn't think, only move.

"He walked right in," I growled by way of explanation.

"Right in?"

"To Applebee's."

"To App—wait, he _walked right in the door_?" Iggy exclaimed. "With _no preparation whatsoever_?"

"I'm going after him."

"I'm going to kill him," Iggy muttered. "After all these years of being chased and hunted and preyed on and he's going to _walk right into an ambush_?"

"I'm following him," I repeated.

"You're—oh, _no_ you're not," Iggy said in a warning tone. "You are absolutely _not_ following him. We're waiting for everybody else—they'll be here any second—"

"I'm not risking it. I'm going in. Wait here, wait for them, and—"

"Max—!"

Any fragment of patience I had left evaporated right there and then. I spun on my heel and faced him, jabbing a finger into his chest as I glared up at his sightless eyes.

" _Listen to me_ ," I hissed. " _I_ am in charge, and _you_ are not. I'm _sick_ of being told what I can and can't do. I have _kept this flock alive_ until this point, and you are going to _do what I say_. I'm going in after him, you're going to stay here and wait for Fang and Nudge, and the three of you are going to figure out how to get us— _all six of us_ —out of here alive. Do you hear me?"

"Don't pull the Leader Card."

"I _just did_. Because if you and I both go in there, that leaves Gazzy, Angel, me, _and_ you totally useless."

"Then stay here and wait!"

"What the hell is _wrong with you?_ If you think I'm going to let him walk in there alone right now then you're absolutely out of your mind! He's _my_ baby. Those are _my_ kids in there. So you're going to _stay out here_ , and I'll see you inside."

I turned back around. Iggy didn't follow me.

I'd just about made it out of the park when I heard his jogging footsteps behind me. His hand reached out to grab mine, but he only managed to brush my palm with his fingers.

"Max," he said in a soft voice.

I knew what was coming, but I didn't want to hear it. Now wasn't the time for _I love you_ s or _if anything happens, goodbye_ s.

We were all going to be fine. Because we had to be.

"See you soon," I said. And I crossed the street, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.

I'll be honest, my entrance was anticlimactic. My thought was that I'd enter trying to look like any other patron and 1) hope that Jamie wasn't there and 2) that if he _was,_ he wouldn't recognize me. That would grant me the opportunity to maybe sneak into the back and down the stairs and into the basement and into… whatever was behind.

I clutched the key in my pocket. _Deep breath, Max._

I immediately surveyed the entire restaurant for even a glimpse of the Gasman, but it was useless—I knew he wasn't there. What my nose _did_ tell me was that he'd gone down said stairs already. My stomach lurched and I felt my entire body flush.

The host was bent at the waist behind the counter, rifling through something on the shelf below. I stood for fifteen seconds, impatiently tapping my foot, before clearing my throat.

He shot up immediately, slamming his head on the lip of the counter on his way up. One of his hands flew to his head. It took me about half a second to realize that I was staring Jamie the Bartender straight in the face.

Neither of us said anything for a beat. His eyebrows furrowed. I moved a fraction of an inch to reach across the counter and slam his head against it when a small smile spread across his face.

 _Huh?_

"Hey," he said brightly. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again. I'm, uh, sorry about—last time. Your brother's kind of an asshole."

Before I could stop it, " _What?_ " flew from my mouth.

He turned his head to the side a bit, kind of like a confused puppy.

"I'm sorry. You know. For kind of making a scene. I wasn't myself that night, I don't know what happened—I closed up all wrong, lost the basement key, we didn't have a copy, it was this huge mess…" He scratched the back of his neck with his hand.

I didn't trust this guy as far as I could throw him. What I _did_ know was that I could probably break every bone in his body if I needed to. He wasn't built like the other Vector soldiers, so I didn't think he was one of them—but that didn't mean he wasn't working for them. While he'd seemed innocent enough, I'd learned the hard way (after much reinforcement) to not trust _anybody_ but the flock.

On the upside, he seemed to think (or was damn good at acting like) I had nothing to do with the missing basement key. On the downside, there was a good chance he was involved with the militia that was undoubtedly slated to murder my entire family.

Cute.

I had no time to figure out how to play it, and I was already this far in. The wait staff had noticed me. The couple at the table closest to us was giving us a knowing smile, like, _Oh, to be young and in love_.

"It's okay," I said, trying to sound like I wasn't trying to break into a secret lair to (probably) kill a decent number of people. "I know, it was a weird night for me too. I'm a lightweight. My brother's protective."

"Kind of nice," he said. He smiled again. "Bet that can be a pain in the ass."

I snorted. "Understatement."

A brief, awkward silence fell over us.

"So, um… table for one?"

"Oh, no, no," I said. A quick look confirmed that we no longer had an audience, so I lowered my voice. "I was wondering if I could go down and take a look for my ring again."

He offered a sympathetic look. "Max, trust me, I looked. And then I looked again. And then I had someone else look. I know it meant a lot to you. It's not down there, I have no idea what happened."

"Please," I begged. "It was my mother's."

To his credit, he looked quite troubled. "I can't let you down there, not with management and everyone else here. Last time was different."

I let some of the nervous energy inside me seep to the surface. Tears pricked the corner of my eyes and I let loose a shuddering breath.

"Jamie," I said, and dammit if that wasn't enough.

"Okay, okay. Work with me here."

He bent down again and handed me a slip of paper that said _Application for Employment_ at the top.

"You can fill that out after we're done here," he said in a louder voice. His eyes were burning holes into me. "Here, let me show you around."

This seemed like an awful lot of pretense for a situation that was probably already a major loss; there was no way Vector didn't know I was here already. There had to be cameras hidden everywhere, and there was no doubt that they knew exactly what each one of us looked like.

At this point, though, I had really no other plan or options, so I was going to go with it.

We passed by one of the waitresses and Jamie asked if she could watch the host station while he showed a potential hire around. She took this in stride with no questions and smiled kindly at me.

Time moved dreadfully slow as Jamie explained more than I, or anyone, would care to know about Applebee's, from the menu to the seating plan to the shifts that I'd be eligible to work.

After what seemed like hours, he said, "Let me show you the supply room quick—the amount of overstock we have down there is kind of proof of how busy we get and how much money you could bring home on a good night."

Well, that seemed like an _incredibly_ suspicious rationale. I widened my eyes at him, and he barely shrugged back, but nobody seemed to be listening.

We arrived at the door and Jamie pulled a key from his pocket—obviously, they'd had a spare—and I realized with frustration that I hadn't needed to get the key at all.

Once we were down the stairs I kicked it into high gear.

The second his foot touched the concrete, he sighed and opened his mouth to say something, but he was too slow—I had him pinned to the wall in moments, one of my forearms at his throat and my other hand immobilizing his arm next to him.

I'll be honest, even with the circumstances, the look of surprise on his face was absolutely priceless. He tried to choke out a sentence but failed, instead settling for questioning me with a distressed expression.

"I don't want to kill you," I said lowly, "but nothing is going to stand in the way of me and my family."

His expression got even more confused, and he tried to force out some more words. What struck me was that I _believed_ this confusion. I released a little bit of pressure from his throat.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he exclaimed in a raspy panic. "Are you crazy?"

"I know you know everything."

"Everything _what_? Jesus, can you get your arm off my throat? What the hell is going on here?"

I loosened a little more pressure. He tried to struggle in my grip but didn't have much luck.

"You know _exactly_ why I'm down here. I _know_ you do."

" _What are you talking about?_ "

"The door behind the dry stock."

His eyes scanned the entire room. " _What_ door?"

" _You know what door!_ "

"Are you fucking crazy?" he asked again. "I'm calling the cops."

I tightened my grip on him. His mouth opened wide and I realized he was going to start screaming, probably for help, so I wrapped one of my hands around his mouth.

A Vector soldier in disguise would've already revealed himself with super strength. And at this point, letting him go wasn't going to make much of a difference—I was already on death's doorstep as it was, in more ways that one.

"What do you know about a company called Vector? _Don't scream_."

I peeled my hand from his mouth only to promptly clamp it back down as he let out a desperate—you guessed it—scream.

My elbow found his Adam's apple again and I stomped on his foot. He whimpered.

"I could break you in half," I growled. His wide eyes, bloodshot and heavy with fear, met mine.

Now was the time to decide. Friend or foe? Innocent or guilty? How willing was I to gamble with my odds here?

"I'll give you one more chance before I hit you so hard you wake up in a different dimension. Tell me what you know about Vector."

When I pulled my hand away this time, all that came out of his mouth was a single choked word: "Noun."

"Noun?"

He hacked once and cleared is throat. "It's a _noun_ ," he said raspily. "A physics thing. It's speed with a direction or some shit, I don't know—"

"What about the _company_?"

"I. Don't. Know. What. You're. Talking. About."

I so wished that Angel was here to read his mind. But the clueless look on his face really looked just that to me—clueless. And if he really _was_ clueless, I could use his help.

I made one of my infamous snap decisions: I told him.

The CliffNotes version, of course. I explained that the renovations weren't just renovations. That there was a Next Level Evil that the public didn't know about, that there were science experiments, that my "brother" and I were part of an elaborate, secretive government scheme, and that all of it was happening right here in the basement of his workplace. I failed to mention the two giant extra appendages that were pulled tight against my back beneath my windbreaker.

As I spoke, he seemed to do what any regular human being might do: think long and hard about whether or not he believed what he was hearing. By the time I finished, I'd released him completely and was trying to figure out how much time I'd wasted.

"Why am I supposed to believe you?"

I fought the urge to shriek. I didn't have time. I pulled my windbreaker off and let one of my wings extend, long and tan and speckled, through the slit in my shirt and across the basement. The distinct, resonating silence of the room somehow got quieter.

That was all I could offer him. It was time to go.

"Uh…"

I crossed the basement to the dry stock shelf as I spoke.

"Listen—I'm running out of time. Will you help me?"

"Help you _what_? What _are_ you?"

"Irritated," I said. "There's a door back here that leads into some sort of lair. I'm going in there. But some of my family is coming any minute. I need you to disable the security cameras, intercept my family, and lead them down here."

"You're not even going to _explain_ this to me?"

Time was ticking. I'd made the wrong decision even involving him—there was no way to know he'd even consider keeping his mouth shut—but at this point, I had nothing left to lose.

I turned my back on him and walked over to the dry stock shelf, dragged it out of the way, and examined the wall.

"This is life or death. I have to go. Do whatever you want."

I wedged my fingers under a piece of the paneling and tugged as hard as I could. An entire slab of it, moist and decaying, came free in my hands. Behind it was a sheet of metal. A _thick_ sheet of metal. A metal door.

"What the…"

"Did you think I was kidding?" I snapped.

"No," Jamie said carefully. "I thought you were crazy."

The door had a keypad in the style of an old cellphone—with three letters assigned to each number. I typed in the only thing I could think of, the only thing that immediately came to my mind: M-O-T-H-E-R. The code to the ATM that Angel had just _happened_ to think of what felt like a million years ago.

The door clicked quietly and slid open in front of me.

Time seemed to freeze. In that moment, I became acutely aware that _this was it_ : this was the culmination of a month's worth of searching, this was the moment we'd been fighting for.

My blood turned to ice as I realized I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

Behind me, Jamie shifted his weight. I jumped. I'd forgotten he was even there.

"Well," he said shakily, looking still like he hasn't processed a word that had come out of my mouth. "Cameras are already down, but I can look for your fami—"

"What do you mean, 'cameras are already down?'"

"They went out right before you came in. Manager's been working on it."

 _Gazzy_.

Was it possible I was actually walking in undetected? It seemed impossible.

"And my family…?"

"Wouldn't miss your ginger brother anywhere. Couldn't, really. Gangly bastard."

He flashed a smile that I found comforting. The painfully displaced idea occurred to me that maybe by doing this he thought he'd somehow get my phone number. Then I wondered if I was being cocky for even considering it. Then I felt like a fucking moron

A different lifetime, maybe.

"Thanks," I said, and I stepped through the doorframe. A long, black hallway loomed in front of me like an abyss. "Gotta go."

I took a few steps in and turned. Jamie stood there motionlessly.

"Tell Fang that he already knows the password," I said. That would be more than enough.

Jamie nodded. He looked like he wanted to say more but wasn't sure exactly what.

Then the door clicked shut and the darkness consumed me.

* * *

A/N: This wasn't well proofread _or_ written, I'm sure that's abundantly clear, but here's an update.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.


	24. TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FOUR

A dark hallway; a long, lonely walk; a silent march; some other eloquent bullshit: I'd been here many times before.

And yet, this time was _so different_.

The tiny, scared part of me (yes, it exists) wanted to wait for Fang, Nudge, and Iggy, but I obviously had no choice: my babies were somewhere deep in the bowels of this place, and every second that passed was another second that they were at the hands of Silas Scythe and his cronies.

So here I was, alone, facing the biggest challenge we'd come across as a flock to date. All I could think of was the mission that had been slated to me by Jeb years ago: _You have to save the world._

At the time, it had seemed so farfetched, so unrealistic; just another ridiculous ultimatum presented to me by the man who'd betrayed us the most over the course of our wretched mutant lives. But now, as I trudged through the underbelly of the Applebee's on Huntington Avenue, it all seemed to make sense.

Suddenly, I was furious. Jeb had known this the whole time, followed orders to a T, and held out on us, then? Had everything else been a stupid game? He was evil, he was cruel, he'd done unspeakable things—but _this_?

 _Walk_. I told myself. _Walk the walk. Sum up your rage. Channel it into your fists. You'll be pummeling the crap out of something soon_.

Yeah. Or I'd be dying.

I was still walking. The hallway seemed to stretch on endlessly. Where was I headed? I had to be far out of the reaches of Applebee's. I tried to picture the map of the city in my head and remember what was next door, but nothing came. Where was Fang and his photographic memory when you needed him?

 _On his way. Keep moving. Everything's fine_.

There was no sign that the Gasman had ever been here, not that I could imagine what sort of sign I was expecting. It was still pitch black, but I could guess by the acoustics of the place that it was empty. It wasn't until I got to the end of the hallway when it became abundantly clear that the Gasman had _definitely_ not been here for one glaringly obvious reason:

I'd been the one to undo the paneling to the basement. I'd pried it away from the door with my bare hands.

How the hell had he gotten in?

My stomach dropped into my toes.

 _Okay_ , I thought, starting to walk a bit faster _. Don't panic. Think._

There were three options.

1\. The Gasman had been totally kidnapped and taken in by some secret entrance.

2\. The Gasman had, indeed, done some preparation and recon, and had disabled the entire camera system and found another way into this secret lair, either by finding plans to the building or some other far-fetched nonsense.

3\. The entire camera system had been disabled by Vector as a decoy, but despite this, the Gasman was somehow able to slip into this place undetected.

My heart sank as I considered these. The odds that Gazzy had found a way into this place—which seemed to be freaking _miles_ from the Applebee's by _underground tunnel system_ —seemed incredibly thin, considering the amount of time he'd had to size it up.

Every ounce of me was aching to launch into a full-blown panic spree, but I forced it down deep into some box that would undoubtedly explode at a later time (if I lived to see one). This was not the time for feelings. This was a time for actions.

I reached the end of the hall finally. There was a sliding metal door there. I'd seen a million like it over the course of our time at the School—the familiar sight made my stomach churn. It was motion sensitive, which meant once I got close enough to it, it would—

 _Click._ The door slid open neatly and revealed a plain room lit with an overhead halogen light. I squinted against it as my eyes adjusted.

If anything, it seemed like an anteroom—there was nothing there but a kiosk of some sort that looked to be for signing in and a door on the far wall. A single camera in the upper right corner sat unblinking. I wondered briefly what the ever-loving hell was going on here.

 _Okay_ , I thought, advancing on the next door, feeling every freaky mutant feeler on in my body come to attention, _round two, here we go_ …

" _Max_."

I stopped halfway across the room and nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked toward the floor so quickly that my head almost came clean off my body. Along the floorboard, directly to my left, was a vent—peering through the slats were the very distinct chocolate brown eyes of _Nudge_.

" _Nudge?_ " I hissed. "What the—why is it _always_ the ductwork?"

"No time," she whispered. "They got Gazzy, they have to know you're coming, but I don't think they expected you to walk straight in—"

"They got Gazzy?" _No, no, no_ —

"He's okay, as of five minutes ago. He managed to get the camera system offline and somehow set the computers to loop the same footage so it looks like the hallways are empty—"

"He managed to—wait, _what_?"

"I have no idea how he did it," she said excitedly, "I can't wait to ask him, it's totally genius—"

"Okay, so they got Gazzy, you're here—what do you need me to do?" I asked. "Where are Fang and Iggy?"

"Up here, too. A little further down. I'm going to meet them, I just wanted to catch you."

"How the hell did you get up there?"

I caught her toothy grin. "Gazzy tipped us off."

"How did he—?"

A loud bang sounded from the other side of the door.

" _Go!_ " she whispered harshly. "Cause a diversion! We'll see you in the—"

The door slid open and I locked eyes with what had to be a Vector soldier—he was towering, bulky, and slightly inhuman looking. His eyebrows raised in surprise for half a second before he charged at me.

 _Go time_.

I dodged him easily the first time. The anteroom was small and didn't leave us much room to fight. The noise was undoubtedly going to attract a million other people, so my best bet was to run for it—I was quicker than them, I knew.

He barreled at me again, but I leapt out of the way, narrowly missing a kick as I did so. I put my arms in front of me in a defensive block—he wound up to punch again but I jumped as high as I could and dove over his shoulder, landing on my feet with ease and launching myself through the sliding door.

What was waiting behind _this_ door was _certainly_ not an anteroom—it was nothing short of a metallic labyrinth. Memories of the School flashed behind my eyes so powerfully that I stagger-stepped backward before I pulled my act together.

I started running. With just the one threat behind me, I had time to focus my attention elsewhere. I studied the walls, looking for any indication of where I might want to go, and I tried to hone in on _any_ of the flock's scent—it was useless, of course; everything smelled like antiseptic wash and formaldehyde.

The Vector soldier behind me hollered something, but I was in a full sprint and not planning on stopping any time soon. I heard more footsteps thumping behind me and knew it was only a matter of time before they closed in on all sides.

Nudge's voice was ringing in my head, urging me to cause a diversion. I didn't want to be just a diversion—it wasn't quite my style; I wanted to find Gazzy and Angel, be the hero, get everyone out safe and sound with no firefight—but there was no way that would ever come to fruition, given the circumstances, so I settled for the next best thing.

 _I'll be the best goddamn diversion the world has ever seen._

I shot through another sliding door and into a room with gurneys and instrument trays. I bashed into and knocked over anything I could, sending hemostats clattering to the ground and bedframes rolling across the room.

"Looking for me, Silas?" I yelled tauntingly. "Well, come and get me!"

Another door. Another room. Footsteps to my left this time—I took a hard right and pounded through yet another door. In this room, pods that looked like tanning beds, but were something drastically more insidious. Isolation tanks.

" _Si-laaas_!" I bellowed in a sing-songy voice, pushing that memory way the hell down where it wouldn't see the light of day. "Here I _aaaaa-aaam_!"

Another door. Another door. Another door—

And then I came slamming to a stop.

This room was not quite like the others. Thick, iron beams supported the ceiling, even higher than the ones in the rooms before it. Three of the walls were starkly white and lined with desks, computers, and other machines I didn't recognize, not even from my days at the School. A cage, not unlike one that might be used to house a bird sanctuary at a zoo, sat against the wall to my left, which was plated with metal. The cage was not empty.

This room had a tall, thin man at the center. His hair was the color of jet fuel and his face was clean shaven. He wore a pair of slacks, a plain white button up, and a blazer. His hands were in his pockets and he was shifting his weight back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet where he stood in front of a desk with a laptop on it.

And he was smiling. Not at me, but at the very slumped, very still, very _lifeless_ form in the cage.

 _The Gasman_.

The panicked exclamation exploded out of me before I could stop it: "Gazzy!"

I broke into a run across the room, but I hadn't made it ten feet before an indescribable, explosive pain blossomed behind my eyes, dropping me to the floor.

"Maximum," he said. His voice was low and gravelly and unkind.

"Stop," I gasped, "please, stop— _stop_ —"

A single moment dragged on for eternity. Every nerve ending in my body was on fire. And then, just like that, it was gone.

I forced myself to my knees, nerves alight and twitching, and looked up at the man. A crooked smile had split his face in half. I had no idea how he'd done this—the chip was out, and I hadn't had a brain explosion since its removal; this wasn't even just pain in my head, but pain at every synapse; how could anyone inflict such pain without an instrument of some sort?—but, at once, I knew who I was dealing with.

"Scythe," I spat. I rose to my feet and started to walk toward him, wings twitching at my back, ready for my time to strike.

I found myself on the floor again, writhing like a trapped snake. I thrashed, trying to shake off the feeling of electrocution, of every single fiber of every single muscle being wrung out to dry, of _torment_.

This time, when it stopped, I was slower rising to my knees, and I realized all at once that I was absolutely, positively screwed. He had the upper hand.

"Max," he said. My name rolled off his tongue like a curse word. "Thanks so much for popping in. Love that you tried to make it a challenge. This one disabling the cameras?" he gestured to Gazzy. "Totally unexpected. I figured it'd be—Nudge? Is that what you call her? Number Four, at any rate."

 _Number Four_. That's what we were to him. To Jeb, and Anne, and all of them. Numbers.

"They'll be joining us soon, I assume. Somewhere in the ductwork, if I'm not mistaken?"

My legs almost buckled underneath me. He knew. I fought the panic, trying to keep my face totally indifferent, but I'd already blown it—the half-second of utter shock had flashed across my face.

"You don't know anything," I snarled anyway. The corners of his mouth crept even further toward his eyes.

"I know everything. In fact, I own everything."

"Bullshit."

He raised an eyebrow and lifted his computer, turning the screen to face me. The background was a generic one, similar to one you might find on Windows XP, but instead of a symbol, it was one word:

 _Itex._

"Wait," I said, and a thick, horrifying feeling of dread settled in my bones like a sickness. "You… you _own_ Itex?"

Scythe smiled, flashing a perfectly straight row of blinding white teeth. "Max," he said with such a cliché, evil chuckle that I almost couldn't believe it, "I own _everything._ "

I snorted at his cockiness despite the absolute terror pulsing through me.

"Define _everything_."

He grinned again, that stupid, know-it-all, holier-than-thou grin. "Vector has been government-protected since the reign of Gideon Goodrich," Scythe said. "And as far as everyone in America knows, he's still in charge of the company. He knew his life was in my hands—and his ongoing livelihood is as well. I'm still not sure how I'll throw his family off the scent—they're quite persistent, those sisters of his—showing up to his apartment, filing a missing persons report…"

I thought of Goodchurch, his family, the legacy he'd started to establish for himself. I thought of the scream I'd heard as I fled Marion Rodgers' house what felt like eons ago. I thought of all of the wild things I'd do to make this all stop—to be born into a different life, a different time, a different universe.

"Within months of my remodeling, we were a conglomerate with so much dirt on all of our clients that no one would dare make a peep. At first, I had no clue about the existence of this branch of Vector."

 _Remodeling_ , he had called it. More like _total takeover and dictatorship._

"A place called 'the School?' I assumed it would—of course—be related to education, which was not a priority of mine; I left it in the control of one of my inferiors. A company called 'Itex?' A normal name for a software company; not my focus. It was grossing immensely, so I never questioned it. A few years ago, however, one of my men brought me a little birdie named Jeb Batchelder, who, with some… _convincing,_ told me all about his six beloved 'Angel Experiments.' It was dedicated, how desperately he tried to hide you for so long, but every man breaks eventually."

So Jeb hadn't known. And he'd tried to protect us. My stomach dropped to my feet, but I wasn't sure from what emotion yet.

"Naturally, I took up a great interest. I'd heard fairy tales about the mythical bird-children. A conspiracy, as far as I was concerned, but now, you were real. And I _owned_ you. The trouble was, you were nowhere to be found. So I did some hunting. Over the past few years, I compiled valuable information. Who do you thinkbuilt new receptor towers for your microchip? Who do you thinktook over as the Voice inside your head?"

"Liar," I spat. "If you didn't know about us until a few years ago, then why did they torture us at the School? Who made _that_ call? Because it certainly wasn't Gideon Goodchurch."

Scythe's lips spread into another filthy smile. "You did the math, finally, did you? No, it wasn't Goodchurch. And you're correct—it wasn't me either. Do you know who oversaw the School until I became aware of its existence? Do you know who tried to keep control over you for his own benefit? So he could play with you like a puppet? So he could do _whatever he wanted_?"

My blood turned to ice. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, desperate to punch something, to grab onto something for support, to reach for my head to hold it in an attempt to contain the pounding.

"Why do you think I showed you those terrible memories of the man who let you be sawed open, who let you nearly die, who tried to impregnate you at the age of eight?"

 _No. No, no, no, please, no…_

Scythe was talking again, but I was long past the point of understanding anything coming out of his mouth. Deep down, I think I'd always known it had probably been Jeb at the helm. But part of me held on to the hope that the things they'd done hadn't been on his orders—that he'd been forced by the hand of another to do what he did. As evil and scummy as Scythe was, I knew he wasn't lying—something in the vacant blackness of his eyes told me so.

At about this time, before I had a second to process, absolute chaos broke out.

 _Clang!_

Behind me, there was a flurry of movement and noise. I turned in time to see, high above me, a ceiling vent drop to the ground. Another item dropped like a stone directly toward where Scythe was standing—he didn't have enough time to react, and it hit him on the forehead. He collapsed to the floor.

It all happened very quickly then.

Iggy's blurred form was on top of him, wrestling Scythe's hands behind him as he thrashed and scrambled away. Nudge dropped afterward and shot over to where Gazzy was contained, her hands, clumsy with nerves, brushing over the electronic keypad that locked him away.

The sliding door behind us opened again and two Vector soldiers barreled into the room. One launched himself at Iggy, who was no match for the Vector soldier alone, let alone another person of any capacity, even with rage on his side. The other was already on top of Nudge, pinning her to the ground—I pushed myself to my feet and moved to help her, to try to break into the cage, to do anything—

—And then I was on the floor in a ball, more agony, like fire, ripping through each nerve ending, leaving me convulsing and crying and bellowing for help— _how was he doing this?_ I tried to force it away, to force myself out of it, but it was no use—

Again, like the flick of a switch, it was gone. I fought the residual shocks in my muscles and stumbled to my feet, raking my gaze across the room.

Nudge and Iggy were being wrangled toward the cage where the Gasman was slumped by two of the Vector soldiers. A third one had apparently arrived while I'd been on the floor; he activated the keypad and stepped aside so they could be shoved in before slamming the door on their faces.

A billion thoughts flooded my mind—everything Scythe had just told me, the Gasman's condition, the keypad on the cage—and then a billion more questions: how were we going to get out of here? How was I going to save us all? What was this man going to do with us?

All of these pressing things, yet the most pressing was what flew out of my mouth as I looked pleadingly at Nudge and Iggy:

"Where's Fang?"

Nudge, who'd ducked down to check on the Gasman, offered me a look that I could not discern. Her face, so expressive, held a look of distress.

"Nudge," I implored. My heart was slamming away at my ribcage. "Nudge— _where is Fang_?"

"Yes," Silas said in a peculiar voice. "Where _is_ Fang?"

"Don't fuck with me!" I shouted at him. " _Where is he_?"

"You don't know any more than I do," Silas said in that same voice. "Maybe we should ask dear Nudge again, here."

"I don't know," Nudge said in a small voice.

All at once, the pain was back. I dropped again to the ground, head to my hands, trying not to scream. It didn't stop—it seemed like it never stopped—a shriek burst through my lips, and I was pleading again, pathetically pleading—

The impulse was gone. My muscles relaxed. Nudge was sobbing behind me. I opened my eyes and saw Iggy's tight face, fuchsia with rage. His hands were white-knuckling the cage bars.

" _Enough!_ " he shouted. A note of hysteria rang through the single word. "Enough! You're going to kill her!"

"I'm fine," I gasped, pushing myself on my hands and knees, fighting with the tiny part of me that was done, that was ready to die, that couldn't take this anymore, that was undisputedly _not fine_ , "I'm fine—"

He did it again. I collapsed again to the ground and felt that tiny part of me growing—the part wondering how much more of this could I tolerate before I croaked or went insane, I wasn't sure—

Iggy's voice cut through the pandemonium once more, the only thing I could cling to in my state. " _Please!"_

He'd stopped again. My voice was hoarse from screaming; I was so exhausted that it was no more than a puff of air in the massive room. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. One fell, betraying the façade I'd tried to manage. Nudge was still sobbing. " _Please_ ," Iggy repeated.

Scythe was fiddling with something in his hand, some sort of small device that had a red button on the top. It had to be responsible for the pain. I had to get at it and destroy it if I was going to be of any help, but how?

Scythe continued from where he'd left off before the chaos. "I kept that man—the one responsible for your misery, for your agony, for your suffering—at the forefront of your mind, at the center of your nightmares, so that when you came searching for me with bloodlust in your eyes and found that I wasn't the enemy, you'd have a place for this rage, this resentment. So I'll give you a choice, Maximum Ride."

I didn't like where this was going, because it was nowhere good. He'd tortured me, locked up my family, done— _something_ —to Gazzy; there was no way _any_ choice would even remotely benefit us.

It'd be the lesser of two evils, then.

"These two are disposable to me, and, as far as I'm concerned, a liability. Kill the two of them, and you and your family can walk out of here—under my control, of course; but maybe more as… colleagues. But if you can't, you'll be sticking around a bit longer."

My first thought was that he was referring to Nudge, Iggy, and Gazzy—but there were three of them. My next thought was, _Oh, my God, the Gasman is dead_ , but before my fear could dissolve into full-blown hysteria, I realized Nudge had in no way gestured that that was the case, and I was fairly certain that I could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

At this point in my miserable life, I was certain nothing could shock me anymore. But then something happened that had my jaw nearly on the floor.

Before my eyes, the expanse of metal wall next to the cage that held Gazzy, Nudge, and Iggy parted open from a crease in the middle, revealing a glass wall behind it. Behind the glass was a small room, impeccably white and no bigger than twenty square feet.

And standing there, pale, emaciated, and in nothing but threadbare grey jumpsuits, stood Anne Walker and Jeb Batchelder.

 _These two are disposable to me_ , Silas Scythe had said.

 _Kill them, and you and your family can walk out of here._

* * *

 _A/N: Maybe two or three more chapters. A lot of the next chapter is written. Love y'all, thanks for sticking with me._


	25. TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-FIVE

 _Kill them_ , he'd said, like it was nothing. Like they were just two ordinary words. Basic instructions, like a recipe. _Step one: Warm one tablespoon of olive oil in a pan. Step two: Add garlic and onions and sauté until translucent. Step three: Kill Jeb and Anne._

It bounced around my brain for what felt like forever. I wasn't aware of my ragged breathing; of the jolts still wracking my system, making me twitch like a rabid animal; of the look of utter defeat that had taken over me; all I knew was that in order to walk out of here, I had to kill two people with whom I had _very_ complicated relationships—and even then, I had no idea how honest of a deal Scythe was cutting me.

I could do it. I could totally ignore my moral code, sacrifice what was left of my own humanity, and kill for my own benefit. And I'd started to mentally prepare to do that—to kill Scythe—but this was something different altogether.

Anne, to start, hadn't contributed to this chaos a _fraction_ of what Jeb and Scythe had—or at least it seemed. She housed us for that period of time, and as insidious as her intentions might've been, she'd still had moments of legitimate, well, _mothering_. She'd tucked the kids into bed, she'd talked to me about my first date (bleh), and she'd attempted a Thanksgiving dinner. Despite wanting to control us, she'd seemingly done it in a more heartfelt way than others had.

Obviously, my feelings about Jeb were more complex. He'd taken us from the School, given us a home in that E-house, but _why_? If he was in control of the School, then it had to have been a part of some plan. Did he leave us alone to develop our own survival instincts? So that when they were ready to toy with us, we'd be up for the challenge? So that when they staged this elaborate game of cat-and-mouse, I'd be old enough to shoulder the immense feelings of responsibility, guilt, and failure I'd inevitably feel?

Were those years of him fathering us _only_ that? Were his feelings of us strictly clinical? When he'd found me in my room in tears on Christmas that first year, wishing for a family I'd never have, was the mistiness of his own eyes orchestrated? Was the tenderness he showed Angel, just a baby and utterly hopeless, an act that he'd perfected?

And even if any of it was genuine—did it _matter_?

And even if none of it _mattered_ , did he deserve to be _dead_?

And even if he _did_ deserve to be dead… did he deserve to be _murdered_?

By _me_?

The caveat to all of this was that I had absolutely no way to guarantee that Scythe was being honest. The options he'd given me weren't ideal. If I killed Jeb and Anne, he said we'd walk out—but under his hand. But how did I know this wasn't some sort of experiment? What if I killed them and he kept us forever _anyway_? What if I _didn't_ kill them and he let us walk—but still under his hand?

My gut told me not to do it. My heart told me not to do it. But my brain was doing backflips, trying to calculate odds, remembering the riddles from Iggy's logical thinking puzzle books a million years ago in the E-house— _a king shows you three locked treasure chests, one of which is full of jewels—the other two are empty—_

A soul-rattling shock rifled through my body again at this and I dropped, hard, to the ground, rolling and curling in on myself, fighting the urge to scream, but then it continued—time stopped indefinitely and I was on _fire_ , every inch of me was being reduced to ash, and I opened my mouth to let a long, blood-curdling scream out—

Scythe's finger must've released the button, because the pain was gone, and I was left spasming on the ground as he spoke.

"You've taken long enough," he thundered. "It's a simple question. Do you want to walk free? Or do you want to stay here?"

We'd come this far—finally put all the pieces together—and this was where we'd ended up?

Where was Fang? Where was Angel?

I watched his thumb graze over the button in his hand.

"Please," I gasped, "please, I'm—"

Suffering. Again. I couldn't move, couldn't make it stop. I heard my own scratchy yells, unlike any sound I'd ever heard before, echo back at me. Faintly, I was aware of Nudge howling, of Iggy screaming.

There was no way I could take it much longer. My heart was racing. There was a crushing pain in my chest. I wasn't getting enough oxygen—my head ached, my skin was melting off, my bones were turning to dust in my body—

" _Please!_ " I cried when he stopped again. "Okay, I'll do it, I'll do it!"

My world slowly merged back with reality. My muscles were quivering. Every inch of me felt rigid, but I pushed myself back to my feet, struggling to stay there.

An odd sensation passed over me—a gush of air, almost as if the edge of an oscillating fan's span had rippled the back of my shirt. I turned, agitating my muscles, and saw nothing.

Iggy's pleading voice behind me snapped me back into the present. He sounded ready to say more, but Scythe screamed, "Enough!" and Iggy, probably expecting me to be tortured again, shut his mouth.

"I'll do it," I said in as nasty a voice as I could manage. "And you'd better not be fucking with me."

Scythe squinted at me.

"We'd better be walking free after this."

"Always skeptical, aren't you?"

"My experience with people in slacks being honest isn't the best, if you can imagine, _Silas_."

I was positively seething. Everything about this was wrong, and I was almost certain this would do nothing for us, that he'd lock us in dog crates again and that would be the end of it.

But it was my best shot, in terms of odds. And something was better than nothing.

Scythe walked over to a control on the wall and lowered the glass wall that separated Jeb and Anne from us about halfway.

I noticed this time around that they were shackled to the wall and gagged at the mouth. Neither made a sound. They were both trembling with fear, an expression I'd never seen on either of their faces. No, not fear— _terror._

These were the faces of two people looking death in the face with nothing at all in their power to stop it. Anne looked like she was ready to pass out at any minute, face as white as the wall behind her. She was drowning in her jumpsuit. She'd always been thin, fit; now, she was wasting away.

But what really got to me was Jeb. He blinked and tears slid down his cheeks, staining the already dingy rag that gagged him. There were paragraphs and paragraphs behind those eyes, blue like a tropical ocean, full of things he'd never get an opportunity to explain.

In this moment, it became excruciatingly clear that we were never _just_ experiments to Jeb. At one point—whether he'd wanted it or not—we'd become something more.

It was clearer than ever that neither of us knew what that was.

The sharp smell of cologne bit at my nose and I startled when I realized Scythe was standing next to me.

"Wake up, Max," he said quietly. "Remember who these people are. What they've done."

 _Remember who these people are._

I did remember. I remembered _all_ of it.

I remembered Jeb walking us to and from experiments at the School. I remembered him sitting next to me in that lab, telling me not to be afraid, explaining my importance, explaining that I needed to reproduce. I remembered being sawed open, watching Fang be attacked, learning Iggy was blind. I remembered Jeb taking us home to Colorado and bottle-feeding Angel and Googling how to manage Nudge's wild hair and teaching Iggy how to boil water and Gazzy how to rewire circuits and Fang how to read star charts and me how to… endure.

I remembered when I, scared and vulnerable after Fang's brush with death, met Anne for the first time. I remembered giving her shit, I remembered her giving it back. I remembered offering us her home, studying us respectfully from a distance, overcooking pasta and undercooking chicken. I remembered the look on her face when we flew away that last night, leaving her as nothing but a bad taste in our mouths and another adult that failed us.

They were people. They were somebody's—somebody. Somebody's coworker. Somebody's friend. Somebody's neighbor.

They'd been something to us, once. Still were, really.

I studied the pair of them again, then raked my eyes around the room. The Vector soldiers had since left, but were no doubt lurking just outside the doors. Iggy was still gripping the iron bars so tightly that it seemed his fingertips would never see circulation again. Nudge was looking intensely at me through wracking sobs. Gazzy was starting to show signs of life next to her. Fang was—somewhere. Maybe with Angel. I could only hope. In the end, these six people were the ones that mattered.

And if killing Jeb and Anne gave me the slightest chance of keeping them alive, maybe even setting us free, then kill them I had to.

I looked up at met Scythe's eyes, so full of sugar-coated maleficence and an insatiable hunger for power. I hated him more powerfully than anyone I'd ever hated in my life. This man was the source of a decade and a half of running, of hiding, or _suffering_.

I offered him one certain, promising nod. He smiled again and handed me something sleek, shiny, and silver—a pistol.

I recognized this gun. A Kel-Tec PF9, the exact same one Ari had shot me with. What had Iggy said when he'd identified it? _Whoever shot you wasn't shooting to kill._

I didn't laugh. _Any_ gun could kill. I'd just have to shoot them more than once and watch them die slowly. Maybe these bullets, like the others, were packed with a surprise that only revealed itself once it was imbedded in your flesh.

A shiver shot through me at the thought of Ari, and it wasn't just a residual from whatever sort of Taser Scythe had been using on me. This had all started with him.

 _Take them out and it's over,_ Ari had said. _Truth really is stranger than fiction, isn't it?_

Oh, if he could see us now.

I took the gun in my hand, feeling its weight, studying the barrel, the trigger, the grip. Instinctively, I raised it in my right hand, trying to fight how unbelievably wrong it felt in my hands. Life seemed to be moving in slow motion. I felt detached—because I had to be, if I was going to follow through with this.

There was a dull click from next to me. When I turned, it was like some other power was dragging my chin by an invisible string.

Scythe had a gun in his outstretched hand, too, only this one was much larger and pointed at Iggy, Nudge, and Gazzy. I recognized it as some type of sub machine gun, the type that could mow down a line of people in an alarmingly short amount of time.

"I don't expect you to get any stupid ideas, but if you turn that gun on me—well, you know," he said, gesturing with the gun. My eye was more fixated on the button in his other hand.

"Max," Iggy said uneasily, but Scythe flipped the safety and he decided against saying more. He met my eyes pleadingly, but for what he was pleading, I had no idea.

"If you're thinking of changing your mind," Scythe said with a note of mischief in his voice, "maybe a little bit of insider information will help you choose."

Something about the way he spoke was taunting. Like what he was going to say would break me and he knew it. My heart started pounding again.

"What?" I demanded.

"These people are responsible for a lot of pain," he said. "A lot of suffering. A lot of death."

My mind was racing so fast that it would undoubtedly stutter to a stop soon. Dread started to bubble up from my toes—I felt it rising to my chest as the smile on his face split his cheeks even further apart—what was he—?

"The little one, Number Six? And Number Two?"

Angel and Fang.

"Don't," I managed.

"I know you've been wondering where they are."

" _DON'T!_ "

"These two people are responsible for so much evil; did you really think it would stop when I got my hands on them?"

 _No, no, no—_

"The thing about me, Max, is that I don't pretend to be noble. I know who I am. What I am."

 _No, no, no—_

"When I offered them life in exchange for Fang and Angel's, what do you think _they_ chose?"

I think I stopped breathing. Somebody to my right was wailing. A voice—Iggy's—was roaring, enraged words penetrating his own sobs, things that I couldn't understand. Gazzy was yelling in confusion, in desperate sadness.

My world was a void. Colors ceased to exist. Rational thought had left me, comprehension of reality had long since dissipated.

Fang and Angel were dead?

Because of Jeb and Anne?

"Max?" came Scythe's voice.

The gun was in my hand. Cold. Smooth. Heavy. My eyes met Jeb's. Cold. Smooth. Heavy. Full of urgent things he needed to say. He bit at the cloth that gagged him. I could hear him straining, trying to scream, to talk, to do anything.

 _Fang and Angel are dead._

Time stretched on. My legs struggled to hold me up. My body ached to find the ground, to lay on the cold tile, to just _stop_. Iggy, Nudge, and Gazzy were a chorus of despair from the cage. I couldn't look at them. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything.

I couldn't kill these people.

I dropped the gun.

My silent existence quickly dissolved yet again to a pain-filled one. This pain was different, though; it was distant. It was fire in a freezing world. It was electricity in an absence of anything. It was suffering in indifference. I screamed because my body thought it should. It was over—it could be over, and that would be okay—

The pain stopped. For one, fleeting moment, I held onto that thought— _it could be over, and that would be okay—_ but then a fire exploded somewhere deep in me, a fire that had somehow burned through all of the darkest times, a fire that had been instilled in me from a young age by Jeb Batchelder himself. It was the fire that said, _It's not over. There's always a reason to fight. Keep going._

Because it wasn't over. Not yet.

"He's lying!" Nudge was screaming. "Max, he's lying, he's lying!"

I scrambled for the gun and pointed it at Scythe, but we both knew I was bluffing—the second I so much as _thought_ about firing, he'd have killed all three of them. I was stalling, trying to get my brain clinking on all cylinders again and searching feebly for some sort of plan.

 _Oh, God, Fang and Angel are dead._

An ear-splitting alarm blared through the building, and the unquestionable _clunk_ of the doors locking rattled through my bones. We were plunged into darkness, save for crimson streaks of light that drenched the room in an eerie shade of red.

An automated sort of voice sounded loudly overhead.

" _Lockdown in place. Zero-zero-one. Lockdown in place. This is not a drill. Please remain where you are until the building is secured."_

"What did you do?" Scythe shouted, advancing on me. When I didn't answer, he let out a frustrated yell. "Answer me!"

Pain again. Worse than any of the pain before. I clawed at the tile and begged him to stop, begged _it_ to stop, begged _everything_ to stop.

I don't know how long it went on for. I had long since entered a realm of some kind where time ceased to exist.

The relief came, but this time I felt too weak to stand. I looked up and saw, against all odds, Scythe being tackled to the ground. At first, by nobody—but after a half second, a dark blur shimmered into view, cocking a fist and sending it flying into Scythe's chest. Scythe made a choking noise.

The pieces came together slowly—a dark blur. A tall, dark blur. A very _alive_ tall, dark blur with a massive wingspan hanging from his back—

 _Fang._

"Fang!" I shouted. Relief pounded through me so powerfully that the world spun, but I could still make out Fang's strong fists positively throttling Silas Scythe. "Fang, don't! He has a—"

The gun fired a half second after Fang jerked out of the way. A bullet sailed through the air and lodged itself deep in one of the beams on the ceiling.

Since Fang's not a moron, he backed off. The button that had been in Scythe's left hand had clattered to the ground in the scuffle. Without hesitation, Fang ground the toe of his boot into it, crushing it into a useless pile of plastic fragments.

Scythe kept the gun raised, backed away from us in a wide semicircle, and found a spot in the middle of the room where he could see everyone. He looked positively enraged.

My body was trembling with residual shocks, making it impossible to stand. I peered up feebly and saw Angel, bruised and battered but _alive_ _,_ trying helplessly to maneuver the lock on the cage.

 _Alive._ Scythe had lied and told me they were dead to try to persuade me to kill Anne and Jeb. _But why?_

There was no time to think. Fang closed the distance between he and I in seconds and stood with his back to me, knees bent, arms out in a defensive crouch. He turned his head so he could speak out of the side of his mouth.

"Are you okay?" His voice was tight with anger, but his profile showed concern.

"Fine," I said, trying to fight the spasms in my muscles as I rose to my feet like a newborn deer. My body still felt like it was on fire, but it was nothing but glowing coals in comparison to what Scythe's button had done. "Fang," I choked out, voice cracking pathetically, "I thought you were—"

"Shut up!" Scythe's voice boomed through the space, over the alarm, over the voices of Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel. He raised the gun again and spoke into his chest, where there was undoubtedly a microphone.

"Get the systems _back on line_!" he roared.

"He won't," Fang muttered to me over the roar of the sirens. "Nudge hacked everything."

Not even this optimistic nugget of information could stop the hammering of my heart or the onslaught of emotions I was feeling. My voice was hoarse and sore and every inch of me ached.

"I thought you were _dead_ ," I repeated.

"Ditto," he said. It was clipped and haunted. I wonder how much of our time in this room he'd seen while invisible.

Scythe was still muttering into his microphone. Fang and I started slowly backing toward the cage. We'd nearly made it to Angel when Scythe fired another bullet—this one hit the wall about a foot above Angel's head. We stopped moving.

The siren was still screaming and dousing the room in streams of red.

"Another test, Maximum Ride," Scythe called in that slimy voice of his. "You failed."

 _What?_

"It's always been your greatest flaw—you _cannot_ _carry out basic orders_ _._ You can't kill to save yourself or the ones you love. You too, then, are disposable."

Two gunshots fired. Instinctively, I dropped to the ground and turned away with my hands over my head, bracing for an impact that didn't come. Almost immediately after came the desperate, ear-piercing wail.

It belonged to Angel.

" _Angel_!" I sprang to my feet and dove at her with no thought to Scythe and his gun or the electricity still jolting every one of my cells. Her hands were clutched over her eyes and she was _shrieking. Oh God, he shot her,_ I of Fang bleeding out on the beach, of Fang's sliced thigh, of how much _littler_ Angel was, _fragiler_ —

"Angel," I gasped. "Where did he get you?" My hands slid up and down her arms, then skimmed her sides and her jeans—no bullet hole, not even a scratch.

 _Does. Not. Compute._

From behind me came Fang's voice, so thick with dread that it was nearly unrecognizable.

"Max."

I cast another look at Angel; she had not, in fact, been shot. Not at all.

I stood to my full height, pulled Angel into my side, and turned a fraction to study Fang's face, pale and freaked. A deeply powerful feeling of foreboding settled over me like a wet blanket. I followed his gaze halfway across the room but stopped to close my eyes and swallow bile when I finally understood.

I hadn't killed Jeb or Anne. Out of mercy, or confusion, or pity—I wasn't sure which, if any.

I hadn't killed Jeb or Anne, because murder isn't a solution: murder is a last-line defense and nothing else.

I hadn't killed Jeb or Anne, because I know as well as anyone that a human being's life has value, no matter how evil, misunderstood, or down-and-out they may be.

I hadn't killed Jeb or Anne.

But Silas Scythe had killed them anyway.

* * *

 _A/N: I don't love this chapter; a lot of this was written months ago, but now that I'm here, I couldn't get it to fit exactly the way that I wanted... is what it is._


	26. TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SIX

I didn't want to look. Nothing to see, really. Any emotions I might've felt were completely eviscerated by shock. But some part of me felt like I owed it to them. These two people had manipulated us and caused us so much pain, but also, at one point, had fostered us, homed us, cared about us.

So I did, finally, turn and look.

You don't need to know. It's not something I imagine anyone would be better off for knowing.

Angel was still bellowing next to me. In the cell, the Gasman, now fully conscious, looked near to vomiting. Nudge had tears in her eyes. Iggy looked grim. I could sense Fang behind me—he was undoubtedly on the balls of his feet, trying to filter out the shriek of the alarm and the flashing red light while mapping exits and assessing flock members and planning for an escape.

Shock had very quickly muffled my emotions, but when the blinding, unyielding anger came, it was overpowering.

This was over. Now. It ended with me.

It _had_ to.

"You're sick," I hissed at Scythe. He kept the smoking gun raised and, as though challenging me, raised his dark eyebrow.

Nothing about his gaze showed any remorse. His pupils were disturbingly huge, his expression was cocky, and the corners of his mouth were turned upward in a suppressed smile. He was under the impression he had the upper hand.

He was mocking us.

He fired off another shot. I hurtled forward and was on top of him in an instant. His head slammed against the floor, forcing his grip to slacken and giving me an opportunity to knock the gun out of his hand. I shoved it as far away from us as possible.

Fang's voice, as recognizable as my own, cut through the chaos. " _Max!_ "

"No!" I shouted over my shoulder. My heart was racing, blood pulsing, adrenaline filling every vessel. "Get them out!"

Scythe's face was twisted into that smile again. I thought of all of the suffering he'd caused so many people—from Gideon Goodchurch to Marion Rodgers to Jeb and Anne to all the other mutants and then, finally, most importantly and most painfully, my flock—and I knew what I had to do.

Being kind and fair has gotten me far in life, that is true. Well, maybe it caused a few setbacks here and there, but by and large, I've always done what I had to do to keep my moral code in check, and I've been okay with those decisions.

This was not one of those times.

This was a time for action. A time for leaving my comfort zone. A time for making a decision that would be something more than a band-aid for our constantly-on-the-run situation, something more than buying time to hide from the inevitable, something more than cutting the head off the hydra.

It was time to kill Silas Scythe.

Wrapping my hands around his neck was easy—they settled there as if they were molded for exactly that. Applying the pressure wasn't much harder. Seconds ticked on like hours as I slowly squeezed tighter, watching his face grow pale and his eyes grow wider.

 _It's over,_ said some small voice in my head. _You won. You're free. It's over._

The scream of the alarm and the angry red of the flashing light had faded; in their wake was a silent and monochrome world of absolutes. I could feel the cartilage of Scythe's trachea beneath my thumbs—all it would take to crush it was a fraction of mutant strength.

I didn't notice the hand shaking my shoulder until it was jostling me. I turned to see Fang at my side, saying my name, looking, of all things, _concerned._ I could sense the flock behind me. The animalistic rage faded immediately.

There was no need for discussion. Fang was, very simply and objectively, making sure that I knew what I was doing. I was ready to respond when I noticed the small audience behind us.

"Max?" Nudge said in a shaky voice.

Just like that, I was sixteen-year-old heart-of-gold, code-of-conduct Max, the non-killer and moral-compass-wielder.

I took a deep breath. _Everything's fine,_ I thought. _Jeb, Whitecoat-turned-father-turned-question mark? Just got shot in the head a few feet away from you. Anne, pseudo-mom who helped save Fang from certain death? Brains are spattered on the far wall of the room. Also, you almost killed a man with your bare hands. Just another normal Tuesday._

Suddenly, the situation was muted; we stood there, stupidly looking around at each other, trying to figure out what the hell was next on the to-do list.

Fang circled around to stand in front of me, reaching a hand down and hauling me to my feet. A dizzy spell came over me and I leaned against him, trying not to totally lose my mind. I noticed I was shivering. Then I realized it was probably aftershocks from being incessantly tased.

It wasn't until Iggy said, "Well, this seems complicated," that the tension broke and I realized the urgency of the situation.

"Okay." My voice sounded like my larynx had been put through a blender. I cleared my throat, and tried again. "Okay. We need to think."

Iggy coughed. "I get the feeling that things are pretty tense right now, but if anybody could tell me _what the hell is going on_ , that would be great."

Nobody said anything. Fang and I shared a significant look. He'd stopped me because he thought he needed to. To spare some sacred part of me—to keep my soul pure. The problem was, Silas Scythe had to die.

"Okay," I said again, mostly to myself more than anyone else. "Okay. Think." My balance was back, so I started pacing, hyperaware of Fang's hawklike gaze on me. "Any genius ideas?"

"I'd be happy to help," said Iggy in a more annoyed voice this time, "if I had a _single iota of a clue_ as to what the _f—_ "

" _Later_." It was supposed to be harsh—an order—but sounded more like a plea.

I didn't notice that my breaths were quick and shallow until Fang stopped me from pacing and put a hand on my shoulder. His eyes met mine again in that same piercing gaze.

He looked so unruffled. Secure. Solid. His hair was tousled, his lip was bleeding, and his clothes were dusty, but no part of him looked affected by any of this. It wasn't fair. It felt wrong that I'd been the one in charge for as long as I could remember; I felt totally incapable of stringing a sentence together, of properly mentating, of not coming absolutely unraveled at the drop of a hat.

His eyebrows moved a quarter of an inch, proving that he knew me well enough to read me perfectly. His eyes softened. _We'll talk later_ , he was telling me.

The tenderness almost broke me. I wanted to pull him aside, to speak only to him, but with four pairs of genetically enhanced ears (one of which belonged to Iggy, who was no longer human as far as I was concerned) it was impossible.

"Fang." My voice was frustratingly weak and timid. I struggled to recall a time I'd felt this discombobulated. "He has to die."

I thought of Angel, who'd just been held in captivity, likely starving and exhausted and emotionally damaged; of Gazzy, who was still only ten years old; of Nudge—sunny, serendipitous Nudge. These _children_ who'd spent their entire lives dealing with unimaginable terrors. Who'd just watched two human beings have their brains blown out not twenty feet from them.

Scythe was writhing on the floor, barely conscious and looking near to death's doorstep as it was. Part of me wanted to leave him there to let him suffer in agony until he died alone.

"I'll do it," Iggy blurted.

"No," I said. "No. It has to be me."

"Bullshit," Iggy grunted. "Max—"

" _It has to be me_." I looked to Fang. "Get them out of here. Then _you_ ," I said, gesturing with my chin to Iggy, "are going to take the kids and get as far away as you can. Find a hotel somewhere over the border in New Hampshire."

"Derry," Fang said immediately. "There's a Days Inn there."

Somehow, I was unsurprised that he knew this.

"Fang—"

"I'll double back and wait in the HVAC. I know how to get us out."

"I don't like this," Nudge said nervously.

"I don't either, but it is what it is," I admitted. "Split."

"Wait—" said Angel, moving to hug me, but I put my hands up.

"No. No hugs. No goodbyes. The fighting is over. We're _safe_ ," I said, and even just the words coming out of my mouth sent a surge of relief through me.

Angel took a step back and met my eyes, looking somewhere stuck between indignant and scared.

"See you soon, chickadee," I said, and turned around so I didn't have to watch them leave one by one. Because no matter what, every time they walked away, it felt like it might be the last time.

The second the sound of them clambering away began to fade, my hands found Scythe's neck again in slow motion, applied pressure, and did not let go. An indeterminate amount of time passed before I noticed the blood bubbling from his lips. My stomach rolled. Once again, I was watching the life slowly leak from this man. I'd watched two other people die today, but this one was different.

This one was directly because of _me._

"I'll see you on the other side," Scythe gurgled. One of his hands came up shakily to point to the back of his neck.

He was referencing my expiration date.

"You're bluffing," I spat.

He laughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he dissolved into a painful looking coughing fit. Then distantly—detachedly, as if through a lens—I watched the light in his eyes die as his body stilled eerily beneath me.

I'd done it. It was over. Silas Scythe was dead.

A feeling of unprecedented euphoria surged through me. And by unprecedented, I mean _unprecedented._ For weeks, we'd been hot on the trail of the top dog in all of this: the person responsible for years of suffering. We'd unearthed clues and covered more miles across the country than we'd covered in over a year.

That top dog—Silas Scythe—was _dead_ beneath me.

I felt like I was on top of the world. I stood up, brushed my hands off on my jeans, and let a refreshingly clear breath of air fill my lungs. My nerves were still twitching from the suped-up taser he'd used over and over and I'd just killed a man with my bare hands, but all I could think was, _We're free. We're finally free._

My moment of untouchability was short lived, as it so often is. The sirens stopped sounding and the room was plunged into darkness. Behind me, one of the doors slid open. I opened my mouth to speak, but it was useless.

Because at that moment, the room exploded.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I was acutely aware of was Iggy's face, the expression on which snapped from downright worried to positively relieved when I met his blind gaze.

I said the first thing that came to my mind: "Hey."

Eloquent. Well-placed. Like, _Howdy!_

Iggy sighed deeply before putting a hand to his face. He did not take it away.

"It is an absolute _miracle_ ," he said, leaning back on his haunches in what looked like pure exhaustion, "that you aren't in a hospital right now."

My body felt impossibly tight and the familiar twitches of aftershocks shot through me. The popcorn ceiling overhead and the lumpy sofa beneath me indicated that we'd likely made it to the Days Inn in Derry in some sort of miraculous series of events that I was not privy to. I groaned lowly without meaning to and tried to sit up—only to be pushed right back down by a pair of strong, familiar hands.

I looked up and saw Fang. His face was tight, but he didn't say anything.

"Stay down," Iggy said. He hadn't moved. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him this drained.

A wave of nausea rolled over me and I struggled to push myself back up.

" _Max_ —"

"Dizzy," I muttered. "Gonna throw up."

Fang's hands were on my shoulders again, this time gently guiding me upright as Iggy shoved a small trash bin into my hands. I gagged but nothing came up. Another pitiful moan escaped me.

My face was half in the can and my ears were ringing. I was vaguely aware of Fang and Iggy talking, but I couldn't focus—my entire body still felt like a live wire, jerking ever so slightly, like an eel stalking prey.

"Max?"

I lurched out of my daze. Fang was kneeling in front of the couch, looking marginally worse than even Iggy.

"I'm fine," I said instinctively. I gave a tiny, involuntary twitch; he glared at me.

"You are _not_ fine," said Iggy tiredly, pulling himself from the floor and plopping next to me. " _Absolutely_ not."

The room was still spinning, but my senses slowly came back to me. I could feel Fang's hand on my knee, smell the must from the cushion of the armchair next to me, hear the dim humming of the radiator as it pushed heat into the stagnant air.

I noticed at this moment that there were only three flock members present. I felt my heart spring to a gallop.

"Where are the kids?"

"Sleeping," Fang answered. "Everyone's okay. They wanted to wait for you."

"Wait for me?"

Fang's mouth hardened into a straight line. "It's been a few hours."

"Few hours!" Iggy snorted. " _Few_ hours—?"

"Iggy," Fang said in warning.

My eyes found the window—it was dark out. It had been dark out when we'd stormed Vector. I'm not a genius, but it wasn't hard to figure out that this meant it had either truly been a few hours or something a little closer to twenty-four.

"A day?"

Fang eyed me levelly, looking for a fleeting second like he wouldn't answer me.

"Sixteen hours," he said bracingly, but I was too tired to care.

My bearings slowly came back to me over the next few minutes. I gave another little electric-shock-jerk. He tried to hide it, but I knew him too well to miss Fang's face hardening even more.

"You've been doing that since we pulled you out of there. Even when you were unconscious."

There was nothing to say in response to that. I tried to direct my thoughts anywhere but back to wishing that Scythe would just kill me and put me out of my misery but failed miserably.

"Yeah, well, he tased her about twenty times," Iggy said, words dripping with loathing.

"That thing wasn't a taser."

Iggy squinted blindly at me. "What do you mean?"

"There's no way. That pain—I don't—" I swallowed, trying to bite back a full-blown panic that I hadn't anticipated. "It just—it wasn't a taser."

"What was it?"

I tracked Iggy as he stood and made his way to the kitchen before closing my eyes and shaking my head. "Search me."

He rummaged for something in the mini fridge. "How long were you in the room?" he asked, motioning with spooky accuracy at Fang.

"Right before Max agreed to kill Jeb and Anne. I had to wait for the right time to jump him." His eyes met mine and it was plain in his expression that he felt guilty for not stopping Scythe earlier.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't do that. I'm fine."

An aftershock rippled through me. Fang's hand balled into a fist.

" _Twenty_ times?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Iggy's exaggerating."

Iggy, who was now zapping something in the microwave, laughed drily.

"Am I? Because it was enough times for me to lose count."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Drop it."

The fogginess had seemed to totally clear from my brain, and the newfound clarity brought with it a surprising amount of pain. A quick inventory of my body revealed that everywhere hurt.

"Why do I feel like I got sucked into a boat propeller?"

"Well, some sort of explosive was their last-ditch effort to finish you off," said Iggy.

"I remember that part."

"Not sure _why_ they wanted to finish you off. Maybe they thought Scythe was still alive at that point."

"Or that you knew too much," Fang added. "All of us are huge liabilities to anyone involved there."

I snorted. "They think we'd open our mouths?"

Iggy shrugged. "Anyway, Fang heard the bang and came back. Not sure what their bomb of choice was, though. Couldn't figure it out."

"Pipe bomb, maybe." Fang shrugged. "Seems a little sloppy for them, but who knows."

"So I'm totally full of shrapnel, then?"

Iggy leaned back against the arm of the couch and folded his long arms behind him, his stony, sightless gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling.

"No," he said. "You _were_ full of shrapnel. Nothing a pair of tweezers and some isopropyl alcohol couldn't fix. Most of it was minor stuff. One of the tables got blasted into you though, Fang said. He had to pry it off of you."

"Is that why I feel concussed?"

"No," Iggy said again. "That's why you _are_ concussed."

I looked to Fang. "You're quiet."

"He's _concerned_ ," said Iggy. "Well, we all were. Are. Obviously. But—you know." He gestured vaguely to Fang. "You know how he gets. Stoic."

Fang cast a lethal stare in Iggy's direction.

"Seriously, though. Are you okay?" Iggy's voice was tender. I didn't realize he was talking to me until I came up for air from the depths of my bowl of carbohydrates.

" _Me?"_

"Yes, _you_ ," he replied with a massive roll of his eyes.

As touching as the victim treatment was, I was all set with being babied.

"You guys can back off. I'm fine. Seriously."

My muscles spasmed again. Fang's eyes narrowed. Iggy, who had apparently achieved dolphin levels of echolocation and sensory awareness, frowned deeply.

"It's nothing," I said in warning.

"Nothing?" Iggy's voice was incredulous. "Cut the shit, Max."

"I'm fine," I said, stabbing my fork into the last piece of tortellini. The hunger-induced dizziness was starting to fade, so I felt at least a fraction more like my old, chipper self. "I've had worse."

"Like hell you have," Iggy snorted. "You're _awfully_ twitchy."

"You would be too!" I snapped, ready for an argument, but Iggy either had nothing to say back or knew better than to.

"Max?"

This was a new voice. I looked up and saw Nudge peering from the doorway of the bedroom. Gazzy stood behind her, and I knew Angel wasn't very far behind. I'd made the mistake of raising my voice, waking them up from what was undoubtedly a peaceful slumber.

In two steps Nudge had closed the distance between us and wrapped her arms around me in the kind of hug that made you never want to let go. Gazzy and Angel threw themselves at the pair of us and we melted into one giant mutant hug.

"I'm okay," I said, stroking Angel's hair, who had started to cry. "Everything's okay. We're safe."

When we finally broke apart, Nudge recounted their side of the story. Jamie had guided them to the entryway and promised to stall anyone in pursuit of us. Nudge, Iggy, and Angel had gone ahead, leaving Fang as their ace in the hole.

"…And then we got out and we heard this massive explosion, so Fang turned around and went back in, and when he pulled you out you looked…" At this, Nudge trailed off.

"Like you belonged in a hospital," Iggy finished. "Like I said earlier."

"Then we came here, and now it's all over. For good." Gazzy finished.

 _Now it's all over. For good._

The weight of this statement was not lost on me. It seemed like every few minutes the reality hit me again: _we were free_.

Gazzy carefully avoiding my gaze is what jogged my memory.

"What I'd _really_ like to know is what on _earth_ you thought _you_ were doing," I said, glaring at him.

He flushed and refused to look at me.

"How did you possibly get those cameras down?" I pressed.

"I—I found the plans to the building," he said, shrugging. "I just had to google a little bit to figure out how to make the system go haywire. It wasn't hard."

My stomach rolled. The plans to the building. Of course. How had I been so stupid? All that time he'd spent "playing games" on our laptop to pass the time had been for reconnaissance.

"That wasn't okay!" I said testily. "You could've been killed!"

"I know."

"We _all_ could've been killed!"

"I _know_."

"You're not a little kid anymore—you have to use your head! We walked straight into a trap!"

" _I know!_ "

Tears had sprung to his eyes now, threatening to spill over onto his rage-reddened cheeks. There was a brief, deafening silence.

"Why didn't you come to me?"

"You were stalling!" he yelled. "We were sitting around for days not doing anything!"

A feeling of dread settled deep in my chest. Gazzy's face reflected that he knew he'd hit below the belt.

"Gazzy, _we needed a plan_ ," I countered feebly.

"And I was trying to _plan_ for the right time to bust in! I needed to save Angel, Max, she's my sister! My _real_ sister!"

 _My real sister_. Like _I_ wasn't his real sister. Like we weren't his real family.

"We could've made a plan _together_!" I shouted, ignoring a pang of hurt. "Gazzy, you _cannot_ go barging into trouble without help like that!"

" _You_ did!" he pointed out.

"That's because that's what I _do_!"

"Yeah, well, why can't it be what _I_ do, too?"

"Because I have to protect all of you!"

My voice broke at the end. I tried and failed to smother a chest-heaving sob. It was too late. The impending breakdown had arrived.

I'd almost lost them. The entire mission had almost been a failure. The moment I thought Scythe had shot Angel replayed in my mind over and over again like a broken film reel before swapping over to the overwhelming feeling of _holy fucking shit what am I going to do_ that I'd felt when I thought Fang was dead.

But Fang wasn't dead. He was here, pulling me into his arms. Relief washed over me so powerfully that the floodgates burst. What felt like a century of constant stress fell from my shoulders and tumbled from my mouth in gasping hysterics. Fang's hand stroked my back and I felt the rest of the flock crowd around us in the sort of group hug we hadn't had since the kids were little.

"It's all over," Angel said in her sweet voice, echoing her brother. "For good." The words lilted like a melody in the air, and for the first time in my life, it felt like maybe—just maybe—everything would be okay.

The feeling stuck with me until I lay back on the couch that night and heard Scythe's words, just as real as they had been as I choked the life out of him: _I'll see you on the other side._


End file.
